


American Werewolves in London

by mxmaelstrom



Category: Genitorturers (Band), Murderdolls, Slipknot (Band), Wednesday 13, dope (band)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Songfic, Vampire AU, Vampires, Werewolf AU, Werewolves, Whump, based on the Wednesday 13 song American werewolves in London, fistfights, help this wasn’t supposed to be angsty, idk what a non-romantic slowburn is but this is it, so much miscommunication, starts off p angsty but won’t end that way I promise, suicide ideation, the band dope are straight up vampires here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22450078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmaelstrom/pseuds/mxmaelstrom
Summary: The Murderdolls are a pretty successful band, getting to tour cool places and travel the world. They’re also werewolves. How will one February full moon, when they're stranded from their bus, sow the seeds that drove them apart, and how will  those seeds grow when their rivals come to town? Furthermore, how will they all learn to mend and forgive each other? Also known as 'three emotionally constipated idiots need to learn to be nice and accept help when they need it over the span of twelve years.'
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not as happy as the song this is based on but not exactly sad either. Using Dope as vampires as a reason for their rivalry cuz why not. My tumblr is extreme-introvert :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The murderdolls are werewolves on one final UK tour in early 2005 and a small group of vampires ruin their good mood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now know the murderdolls weren’t on tour in 2005 but I thought they were and they’re not werewolves either so just go with it :p

When the Changes had first began, he’d been scared. Once a month, every month, he’d wake up somewhere strange, lost and confused, and _scared_ , more scared than he thought he could be. He’d eventually crawl home, naked and bloody with pink matter beneath his nails, blood in his mouth, and flesh in his teeth. The first time it happened, he had only been twelve. His mother had simply sighed once she’d gotten over her initial shock and left it to his father to explain lycanthropy to him.

Now, he almost revelled in the Changes. He still had little memory of what went on when he was Changed, but that didn't matter. The little flashes that swept through his mind - of Joey struggling to keep up, always the last to fully change, of Acey showing off by swinging round trees and telephone poles - were enough to reassure him that he had fun. The bodily goop that always seemed embedded beneath his nails after a full moon might be a stark reminder that they hunted and killed for food - hunted people - but the deaths reported were always of criminals, who’d apparently been attacking people before Wednesday and his little gang swept in, like werewolf vigilantes.

That was pretty cool, so he decided not to sweat it too much.

Except they’d been seen one day. One of them, Wednesday didn't know which, had woken up a bit too close to visible public territory. They hadn’t been caught, luckily, and had run off into the wilderness to pull their clothes back on before they could be caught, and had come to accept that Changing in public was too risky.

Now they were little more than grifters when they Changed back, stealing food when they had to and shivering against the cold whilst huddled around fires in metal trash cans like hobos whilst they tried to summon up the energy to locate their bus.

Somehow, it didn't seem too bad. They had a bus, they had money for gas and food, and nobody had actually caught sight of their faces, so they could continue with their band, living the life of nomads they found suited them.

Acey was the newest to join Wednesday’s band. He’d been in another band, a lone human amongst vampires, and Weds had Changed him upon request, though stating that it was unlikely he could ever join his old band again, that vampires and werewolves had an ancient, instinctual hatred and fear of one another.

“I’ll be fine. I know what I’m asking for,” he’d murmured, eyes cast down like they both knew he’d been lying. He was both older and taller than Wednesday, older than all of them, though not by much, and Wednesday somehow doubted he’d seen as much as them. Despite the vampirism, his old band - Wednesday refused to dirty his mouth with their name - had done much to keep him out of supernatural circles. As such, he was strangely innocent, in a way Wednesday might find endearing if he wanted to think about it too much.

He didn’t want to think on it too much, though. It only opened a can of worms made of both of their personalities, laid bare side by side, and Wednesday knew his would always be found wanting.

Anyway. He shook himself and withdrew his attention from the self-pitying train of thought, back to it’s original line.

Humans and supernaturals didn't do well together. The amount of blood Acey’s old band had drank from him when the need had occurred had proved that, but they had tried to protect him and keep him safe.

And not that Wednesday had ever regretted turning him. Selfishly, Wednesday refused to feel remorse for not holding off and waiting until Acey had pushed further for it, certain he wanted to be Changed. It was safer for him to be the same as them. Besides, his old band hated Wednesday and his, and Acey would have to pick a side one day. He couldn’t stay in the middle forever.

And Edsel had refused to turn him. The band toured too infrequently, too hard when they did, and their partying made a situation as far from ideal for a new vampire as it could get, if the attempts to change him didn't outright kill him. It was the only thing Wednesday respected the vampire for.

Now though, they were huddled around yet another trashcan fire under yet another bridge, chattering about what they remembered and laughing amongst themselves, pretending they weren’t as cold as they were, though they still had to stamp their feet in a futile attempt to stay the cold from time to time.

He shook again, this time from cold.

It had been too cold last night, cold enough for the pain of Changing to not affect them, leaving them unfortunately fully conscious the whole time, and whilst they had located their clothes quickly, their bus was at least a mile away. Piccadilly, if he remembered correctly, but it was too cold to think. Best to wait around the fire until the sun came up to burn off the icy February fog. Then they could get their wallets and get coffee, and think then.

The sun rose not long later, but it was still too cold. Ben made them all check their pockets for loose change, and went to get them cheap coffee once they had located enough money. He returned not fifteen minutes later, cradling three cups against his lanky frame. The five of them split the coffee as equally as they could, burning their throats with their sips and warming their fingers on the polystyrene.

The coffee had injected some sense of proper cheer into them, warming them up enough to hunt for the bus. Wednesday lit a cigarette, smoking as the group walked, enjoying the sight of the smoke curling into the sky. Not wanting to be outdone, Eric huffed, grinning, his breath misting in the air. Weds grinned, expelling another stream of smoke, far thicker than Eric’s breath.

“Goddammit,” he grumbled, but he was still grinning. Wednesday leaned as he walked to bump shoulders with him. Joey made a point to move out of their way as they veered around on the sidewalk, though Acey and Ben were tall and solid enough to not pay them any mind.

They all stopped in the middle of one bridge, chatter dying like a candle being snuffed out. Wednesday wasn’t sure which bridge it was, though he knew most bridges in London had names.

Across the bridge, on the other sidewalk, a group of several people were capering about, jolly despite the cold and hour. Something about them seemed unnatural, inhuman, so solid in their space yet moving lightly, like paper string in the wind, and Wednesday wanted to move, wanted to get away from them, fear coiling in his stomach.

That was silly. They were just people having fun in London at half past eight in the morning.

Turning to his bandmates, they too were transfixed on the group across the road. Acey was the most visibly confused, like he didn't know why he was suddenly scared, and Ben seemed almost angry. Joey was simply staring, face unnervingly blank, and Eric was just tense, like he was preparing for a fight.

Turning back, Wednesday still felt that unease and fear, bubbling away. He was just about to walk on and ignore them, pretend they didn’t seem weird, when one of them jumped off the bench she’d clambered onto.

Her coat flapped behind her, almost like wings, and her long, stupidly voluminous skirt made a parachute around her, baring sickly pale legs. By the time her skirt had returned to its normal place, her legs had already begun to turn pink in a flash of bright winter sunlight, though she didn't seem too phased, landing on the tarmac as lightly as a cat. One of her companions laughed at something another one said, mouth hanging open, and even from this distance his teeth seemed too big, too white against the vivid red of his mouth.

Vampires.

Wednesday seemed to kick into motion like a marionette doll, stumbling off down the road like he wasn’t really in control of his legs. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, as his fear relented. The vampires hadn’t seen them, and from this distance, they wouldn’t even be able to smell them as werewolves, not with the traffic.

The others quickly caught up, pale faced, cheer gone. Ben tried to restore it again by talking about his latest night with a groupie, about dumb shit his brother had said on the phone, anything to distract from the vamps. Eric joined in, turning his mind away from the creatures, and then Joey joined in.

Acey was still silent, eyes glazed over like he wasn’t really with them.

This was the first time he’d seen a vampire since he was turned, Wednesday realised, feeling a sudden jab of pity for him.

He was still trying to maintain a good relationship with his old band, but he’d never really grasped how ingrained the hatred and fear of vampires was for werewolves, always believed it to be hyperbole. Now he knew the reality, and he looked like he’d had his whole world ripped out from beneath him.

Wednesday hung back and bumped shoulders with him, trying to convey kind words he could never say, though he knew it wasn’t enough.

“I hang out in supernatural bands,” Acey said quietly, not looking at him, not looking at any of them, staring glassily into space. Somehow his voice cut through Eric’s, and they all turned to him. “It’s safer for me like this.” He didn’t seem to realise he had spoken aloud, seeming more like he was only trying to convince himself.

“That doesn’t mean you have to avoid vampires. If they knew you as a human, they-” Joey cut himself off, his face screwing up, trying to think of what he could say. “If they let a human in their band despite the dangers, and actively kept him safe, they might not hate that human as a werewolf.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” But Acey kicked a stone viciously, still upset, sending it skittering down the sidewalk. Nobody spoke.

A minute later he broke the silence. “I suppose I should have waited, and thought it out properly.” He spat the words bitterly, and Wednesday ignored the hazy memories of that night.

“Maybe. I should have made you wait, though. It’s my fault as much as yours.” More silence followed, and Wednesday tilted his head, another question coming to mind. “Would you have made a different choice?”

Acey was quiet, stopping in his tracks, before his face twisted indignantly. “Of course not.” His shoulders pulled him into a slouch, like he was trying to disappear, like his shoulders were trying to melt into the tarmac, but then he straightened and started walking again, hands in pockets, face calmly blank, looking the picture of composure.

He only put his hands in his pockets to hide them shaking. Wednesday knew him well enough not to consider anything else. He bumped shoulders with him again when Acey caught up to him, trying to convey sympathy and understanding he never knew how to phrase. Acey bumped back, giving him a nod and a queasy smile Wednesday didn't want to translate as grateful.

They were only a few streets from their bus by now, having somehow lost ten minutes in their vampire-induced angst. Joey’s stomach rumbled, and then it was a chain of reaction with all their stomachs.

“Think breakfast is in order,” Wednesday grinned in a brief moment of silence between stomach gurgles.

That restored the missing cheer, and they all spent the remaining walk making verbal lists of what they wanted to eat, picking apart each others’ choices in a way only close friends could.

By the time they’d reached the bus, their driver shaking his head good-naturedly, used to their monthly antics, they’d made their choices, vampires all but forgotten.

Wednesday vowed to put them - and Acey’s dilemma - out of his head. Acey would decide for himself, and whatever he chose, Wednesday knew he’d support him. Even if he chose the other band, even if he cut all ties with them, even if they’d lose their tempers and say shit they’d regret, only to come running back years later.

 _Oh yes, this is such a good snapshot of our happy, carefree lives_ , he thought bitterly, stepping onto the bus after Ben. _Acey being emo over his life choices and us failing to cheer him up, wandering around London looking for the bus like losers after spending a night as a werewolf._ The door shut behind him, shutting out the cold and vampires of London, though he was so lost in his own thoughts he barely registered the warmth.

An hour later, they were back on the bus after having gone out for breakfast, full of waffles and eggs and bacon and every other breakfast food they had been able to think of, but still wanting more. Hunched over hot buttered toast on the sofa, crammed between Acey and Eric, Ben dangling off the back of the sofa to tell a story about another groupie - or maybe the same one as earlier - whilst Joey perched on the armrest, Wednesday decided this was a far better candid of their lives.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month after the bridge incident, the Murderdolls are stuck in London for a week after their tour. Even worse, their rivals are in town, and Wednesday wants to fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For something that was supposed to only be one chapter this sure is becoming a developing soap opera.

Someone had fucked up.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it sure was fucking annoying.

Someone had booked the flight tickets home for a week after the tour ended, instead of the day after. It was a mistake that Wednesday supposed was easy to make, but that didn’t make it all better. None of them wanted to spend March in freezing London, but now they seemed to have little choice.

At least when they Changed this time, it would be warm enough for them to not have them be conscious when Changing back. Last time, the cold had numbed enough of the pain for it to not knock him out, but it hadn’t done much to eradicate the rest of it. Whilst the morning after hadn't been too bad, save for the vampire encounter, it had been a far from ideal way to become human again.

And Wednesday wasn’t especially pleased at having to Change twice in the same city.

Whilst they weren’t in one place long enough to arouse suspicion, having to Change twice in the same place always made him uneasy. Werewolves rarely did well in the same place, constantly operating the same public space where they Changed, hence why so many ended up either nomadic wanderers whose jobs took them across the world, or reclusive shut-ins who could live in one place for a decade and not know their neighbours’ names.

“It’ll be fine, dude. Stop worrying,” Joey drawled, sprawled on his stomach across the sofa whilst Wednesday paced back and forth.

Wednesday paused in his tracks to scowl at his guitarist. “But we’ve never Changed in the same city more than once in a row. If we were up in Scotland still maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, but this feels too risky.” He started pacing again.

“It’ll be _fine_. We’ll be fine. Nothing’s gonna happen. Nothing’s _ever_ happened.” This time it was Acey reassuring him, much like he’d tried to reassure Acey this past month.

After the vampire encounter, Acey had hypothesised that if he was exposed to vampires enough, he wouldn’t get that innate fear of them anymore. Either that or he knew his old band well enough that maybe it wouldn’t be a problem.

He also hadn’t told them he was a werewolf yet, though he had vague plans to, when he was off tour. The crueler part of Wednesday was dying to see how _that_ went down with Edsel, from all reports always the egotistical control freak, but he hadn’t shot Acey’s hopes down. He wasn’t going to be mean. He was a dick, but he wasn’t that much of a dick, especially to his friends and bandmates.

Also after the vampire encounter, Acey had become a lot quieter and more withdrawn. Part of Wednesday thought he didn’t believe his own theory, though he never voiced that belief.

He was not withdrawn or quiet onstage; onstage Acey was still nutty and energetic, bouncing around like a shapeshifted Pogo Stick, but on the bus afterwards he would sit quietly with a water bottle, ignoring the antics of the rest of them and however many girls Ben and Eric had brought back, even the girls who had flirted at the venue, staring into space with a look on his face like someone had walked over his grave.

Wednesday stopped his pacing again, distracted enough, and flopped onto the sofa, next to Acey, half-considering reverting to being the distracter instead of the distracted.

He was sat on top of Joey now, and smirked at his yell.

“Motherfucker! Get off me!”

“I don’t want to.” His smirk widened when Joey began wriggling, trying to push him off. Considering Wednesday was sat on his back, leaving Joey sprawled on his stomach, it was a battle his guitarist could never win, even though Wednesday was having to fight with gravity to retain his balance. 

Acey cackled at Joey’s whining, moving to sit across his legs.

“Oh Acey you asshole!” Joey started flailing his arms about and trying to push himself up; the only thing he could now do. Now Joey was mostly still, Wednesday began to shuffle about, like he was getting comfy, and cackled and high-fived Acey when Joey’s whines turned to shrieks.

“Fuck off, dude! It hurts, you asshole! I can’t breathe!”

Wednesday decided to wait another ten seconds or so before letting Joey up, still wriggling around before standing. Acey took a few more seconds before showing mercy.

Ben had emerged from his bunk after a post-breakfast nap, presumably at Joey’s screams, and he was blinking at the light with a look on his face that suggested he was still hungover. His dreads were poking every which way, a few tied in a ponytail on top of his head. None of last night’s groupies had emerged, but Wednesday thought they might have already gone, before deciding he didn’t care too much. If they were gone, they were gone, and if they weren’t they would be within an hour.

“What’s going on?” Ben trudged to the kitchen area, nodding a sleepy greeting to Eric, who was perched on a counter, smirking at Joey’s discomfort.

“We’re annoying Joey.” He glanced Ben’s way and nodded back at the sofa, where Joey was rearranging his clothing after Wednesday had shuffled it into disarray.

“Fuckers.” Joey sniffed haughtily. Acey swung his legs over him again, and Wednesday cackled, wanting to sit on him again.

“I’ll sit on you again,” Acey threatened with a mischievous grin they hadn’t seen for a month, almost like he’d read Wednesday’s mind.

“Dude, no! You're like a foot taller than me!”

Wednesday disagreed with Joey’s plea for leniency, but decided not to voice it.

Apparently Ben had the same thought as Wednesday. “You threatened to piss in my beer last night, you little shit. You deserve to be sat on.” He even began to make a move towards Joey, but Joey was too quick for him, scrambling off the sofa with a scowl. Ben slouched back. “Fuckers,” Joey sniffed petulantly.

Wednesday leant back and stretched, the amusement seemingly over.

A few seconds later, however, Joey’s squeal rang out. Wednesday slouched forward in anticipatory glee to see that Ben had put Joey in a headlock. Too off balance to get enough leverage to get out, Joey started beating weakly on Ben’s back with one fist whilst they all laughed and jeered. “Get off me you asshole! Fuck OFF dude! Oh shut up you assholes! Oh, you’re as bad as Craig! GET OFF ME!”

Ben wasn’t letting up, and ignored their guitarist, speaking slowly like he was thinking out loud. “What are we gonna do today? Go explore, have a look around, see what London has to offer? Or just sit here? I kinda wanna wander around, see some sights, enjoy the city a bit. What about you guys? What do you wanna do?”

The whole time he still had Joey in a headlock, wandering leisurely around the bus whilst he spoke, dragging their wailing guitarist with him, ignoring him like he wasn't even there. The only acknowledgement he gave Joey was a smirk.

“Let’s go have a look around?”

Wednesday nodded at Eric in accordance, and Acey hummed his after pretending to think for a few seconds, dragging out Joey’s torment with a grin.

“What about me,” the tormented guitarist wailed. 

“You’ve been here with Slipknot enough times to have wandered around London but we’re gonna drag you round whether you like it or not,” Ben told him dismissively. Joey scowled and poked his tongue out.

“Right. We all agreed on going out?” A chorus of yes’s sounded. Wednesday clapped his hands together. “Great. Let’s be ready to leave in ten.”

With a hand to muss Joey’s hair beyond salvation, digging his fingers in for real torment, Ben finally released him.

“Go fuck yourself,” Joey grumbled, trying, to no avail, to fix his hair.

“Next time you threaten to piss in my beer a headlock will be the least of my reaction,” Ben said darkly, still smirking. Joey repeated Ben’s words in a mocking mumble, turning to get ready to leave the bus.

Ben didn’t retaliate except to undo his ponytail and slingshot his hairband at him, apparently deciding to grant mercy on him. Wednesday raised his non-existent eyebrows - he would have certainly at least yanked on Joey’s hair, put him in another headlock, and tousled his hair again - before wondering if Ben was simply deciding to play the long game and get Joey back at a later date.

Though Wednesday knew he was a dick. Ben was much nicer, so he could have decided that he’d tormented Joey enough.

Wednesday decided to just get dressed and not think until he was faced with the choice to buy something he wanted or to save his cash.

They were wandering around various markets and ducking into interesting or spooky shops and the occasional comic book shop, having a look at whatever caught their attention. They were in one market - Wednesday couldn’t remember which one - when he felt a horribly familiar icy tingle crawl down his spine, almost telling him to turn round and leave the market. He paused mid-step, and Eric, who’d been deep in conversation with Acey and Joey, ploughed into his back with a yell.

“Dude what the fuck?! Move!”

Wednesday turned to apologise, but his words seemed tangled in his throat. He briefly wondered how pale he’d gone when Eric’s face shifted from annoyance to concern.

Then his face shifted again, eyes widening. Fear was detectable, but almost overshadowed by shock and disbelief. Presumably he had felt the same shiver, but Wednesday couldn’t speak to ask him. It felt like every instinct within him was silencing him, forcing him to be mute, like they mustn’t be heard, like noise would doom them.

Acey stared between them, confused but also quiet. Shoppers moved around them, like water around a rock in the current, with little more than an annoyed glance at having to move around them.

Joey was next to catch up, his face going slack like it did every time he was unnerved, like he was trying to hide it, and then Acey followed, going from confusion to dread and fear faster than Wednesday could have believed possible.

Ben was last to feel - whatever the hell it was - his eyes scanning the market to look for whatever had spooked them, his whole body tense with the same coiled anger as -

As on the bridge last month.

Fuck. Vampires. Again.

They probably wouldn’t be the same colony as last time - which didn’t even matter, cuz the vampires there hadn’t seen or smelt them - and they probably wouldn’t even be able to smell them from wherever they were. It would be a non-issue. They weren’t in danger.

Yet Wednesday couldn’t even believe his own thoughts, dread and disgust and rage coiling and swirling within him. There were no cars here, so traffic and pollution wouldn’t hide their scent as it had last time, just shoppers milling about.

When he thought it couldn’t get worse, Ben tugged his arm urgently. Wednesday turned to him.

Ben was still tense and angry, eyes now widened with shock and recognition, fixed on a spot across the busy market. “Over there,” he nodded, eyes not moving.

He wasn’t even blinking, just staring like he was staring down a predator, eyebrows pulled into a glare. Wednesday tried not to gulp, nerves ratcheting up, and he turned before he had the chance to summon up the courage to. Better to get it out of the way, he figured, ignoring the idea that he would regret that choice.

At first, he saw nothing. Just Londoners going about their business, milling about and shopping, chattering and bartering and haggling, enough of them for their noise to nearly give him a headache, but then one man near the entrance across the market, evidently just walking in with his colony, stood out to him, and fear turned to a hot anger that began to pool in his stomach.

The man was tall, far taller than anyone around him. At a guess, Wednesday would say he was about Ben’s height, though he’d only met the man once, and couldn’t really remember. Black dreads hung past his elbows, and a red and black bandanna wrapped around his forehead. Khaki cargo pants hung off his hips and a black hoodie hid his lanky frame. He hadn’t seen them, deep in conversation with presumably another vampire, though this one must be shorter, hidden behind shoppers.

Fuck. It was bad enough that vampires were there, even though they couldn’t smell them, but Wednesday had seen this vampire - and the ones around him - in Metal Hammer and Kerrang!, in interview photos and posters. He even remembered thinking mockingly that the vampire looked like a total redneck, but now he couldn’t find any mirth at the vampire’s appearance. The fear began to return.

“Oh fuck. Oh crap.” Acey must have followed their gaze. Wednesday turned to him, to see his face white as a sheet, mouth slack and open, eyes wide in utter horror and desperation. “Oh, why? Why here, why now?” His hands bunched up and relaxed, before disappearing into his pockets. “This is the last thing I wanted to happen,” he muttered to himself desperately, almost as if he wasn’t aware he was talking.

Wednesday didn’t know when Acey had been planning on telling his old band about his now lycanthropic status, but it probably wouldn’t have been in person, when he was with the ‘Dolls, looking like he’d chosen a side of their rivalry when he wanted nothing more than to keep out of it. A stab of pity briefly quelled Wednesday’s dread, replacing it with rage before the fear returned again.

He wanted nothing more than to let loose at the vampire, though this was less instinctual and more personal. But this wasn’t the time. However much he wanted to fight, they were in public, in daylight, and Acey didn’t need to get caught up in the rivalry any more than he already was.

“They haven’t seen us yet. I don’t think they’ve even smelt us. They might not at all. This is manageable here, I guess.” Eric’s voice sounded distant, but it seemed to wake Acey up out of his nervous trance.

“Shall we leave?”

 _Why should we,_ Wednesday wanted to snap, suddenly angry and defensive. _We were here first, and we’re not causing any trouble. Let them put up with us, and if they wanna start something they can start something._

That wouldn’t help. Edsel was always spoiling for at least an argument, from what he knew of the vampire, and there was a time and a place. Acey was getting paler by the second, looking almost as pale as his old undead counterparts, so Wednesday took the role of the wise leader that he hated and agreed with Joey. There was always next time, when he was alone.

 _Or,_ he pondered, _maybe the others could go on, back to the bus or whatever, and I can hang back._ He gave the market a quick once-over, looking for an excuse to hang back.

He found one.

The truth, if he wanted to admit it to himself, was that he was spoiling for a fight as much as Edsel was.

If not more.

“Yeah. If you want to. I might hang around a bit, but don’t let me keep you here.” Eric and Ben both gave him a long, accusing look, knowing what he was thinking, though Acey just looked relieved to be going, and Joey was busy watching the vampires to see if they spotted them, carefully blank faced and ignoring him. “What? There’s a comic stall over there. Look! See! I’d be ages there, and I wouldn’t want to bore you guys when you could go and nap or get food or whatever.” Wednesday pointed at the stall, schooling his features into a perfect display of wide-eyed innocence.

Eric and Ben narrowed their eyes, like they didn’t believe him, but whilst Eric folded his arms, eyebrow raised like he was waiting for Wednesday to back down, Ben relented, giving him another long look. “Okay. Don’t be more than half an hour, though. We don’t want something to happen.”

Wednesday nodded, thankful for Ben giving in. Wednesday longed to really argue - to fight - and he could feel the tension boiling in his veins, the nervous energy from this morning back, but Ben was bigger and stronger than him, and if he wanted to, he could easily stop Wednesday from staying.

With a muttering of goodbyes that he wasn’t paying attention to, Wednesday strolled to the comic stand. A few caught his attention, but he purposefully dawdled, waiting for the vampires to notice him.

Every instinct was telling him to leave whilst he still had the chance, to get away unscathed, but he refused to give in. Last time he had given in because he was tired and cold, but it was warmer now, and he was full of caffeine, and a Change was imminent, in two nights. Even better, it was nearly midday, when vampires were at their weakest. He was at his strongest now, so why should he go, when he could fight with fair odds?

Unless the rest of the colony got involved, but his issue was with Edsel, not the colony, so he wasn’t too worried about their potential participation.

It took a good few minutes, the comic vendor getting bored with him, slurping coffee from her stool with an expression of bored disdain, but another icy tingle crawled down his spine, far stronger than before, and he knew he’d been spotted. He paid, even getting an extra comic to appease the vendor, and turned away to the middle of the aisle, making sure everything was put away. Only then did he let himself look up and around, trying to seem casual despite how dry his mouth had become and how his hands were beginning to shake, though he told himself it was rage, not fear causing the tremors. _The next full moon isn’t for another two nights. I’m at my strongest right now. I don’t need to be scared of some skinny fang-banger pot-head._ It calmed his nerves a little, until he saw the vampire.

Edsel was closer now. The rest of his colony was still by the entrance, but he was only a few stalls away, and even though he _looked_ to be engrossed in the stall he was at, Wednesday could feel he was being watched.

He gulped. This was a dreadful idea, and he now wanted little more than to leave, but he refused to be scared of Edsel. Of anyone, really, but Edsel was here and tall as a god and terrifyingly vampiric, and to run away with his tail between his legs was unacceptable on a good day, let alone in front of a rival. He couldn’t leave.

This was perhaps the worst idea he’d ever had.

Part of him was nervous now his bandmates had left, but he refused to give into that feeling, tried to remove it and fill its’ space with anger. It was better they were all gone, especially Acey, and it was mean to expect them to be there, especially given what he planned to do.

Edsel looked up, directly at him, halting all thoughts and replacing them with dread and rage. They exchanged eye contact, Edsel’s lip curving in a soundless snarl after he sniffed the air and smelt wolf. Fangs glinted, long and sharp, and Wednesday knew for certain this was the worst idea he’d ever had.

They stared for a few seconds, before the vampire stretched like a boxer before a match, his mouth curving again, into a sure, pale smirk that probably put the strongest fear in most of his prey. Wednesday could hear his joints popping, even with the volume of people and their noise. He gulped again when Edsel tilted his head, seeming more like a wax doll than a person, and raised an eyebrow in invitation.

He wanted to run, wanted to just get the fuck away from the vampire and his colony, but he couldn’t show fear, couldn’t let him win. Especially not on turf that belonged to neither of them. He was too proud to run away and prove Edsel’s dominance.

Wednesday gave a final gulp, out of options, and took a step towards the vampire.

There wasn’t any turning back now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated, for other things my tumblr is extreme-introvert :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday has been wanting this fight for ages, but now it's actually happening, he's wondering how much of a bad idea it was. He's also vastly underestimating his rival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Updating regularly? It's more likely than you'd think!
> 
> I wrote most of this with an epic hangover after a bender whilst watching the Witcher, not gonna lie, so if it's crap blame that.
> 
> Tumblr plug: extreme-introvert

“Wednesday Addams.” 

The vampire’s voice was a mocking snarl. He stood only a metre away now, arms crossed, whole body loose and ready to move. He was almost bouncing from foot to foot, and Wednesday wondered how high he was, or if vampires were usually this fidgety. Fangs were just poking out of Edsel’s mouth, and his eyes glinted with bloodlust of a kind Wednesday couldn’t decipher. Not wanting to follow the train of thought of potentially horny vampires, he decided to have a glance around to locate the rest of the colony.

The rest of them - he should have been paying attention to them earlier - were split between the ends of the aisle, two down Wednesday’s end, one down Edsel’s end, clearly blocking him in with the vampire. They were nosing around stalls, not overtly pinning him, but he didn’t like to think what would happen if he tried to leave now, how they’d stop him walking past them.

His fear snuffed his rage enough to not rise to the bait immediately.

“Whaddya want, Dope?”

Edsel raised an eyebrow at the ignored chance to argue, but let it slide. “I was wondering what a werewolf like you would be doing here. Didn’t your tour finish three days ago? Shouldn’t you be back in the States?” His mouth dropped open in mock admiration, a hand going to his still heart. “Oh! Are you here for us, to support us tonight, or for another signed poster?! Oh, I’m touched!”

Wednesday tried not to shift from foot to foot, hating to have to admit anything. “The flight tickets were booked incorrectly,” he spat through gritted teeth, feeling his cheeks heat up and rage coil again inside him. The anger at his humiliation jerked him forward a step. The vampire matched him. “The wrong week. You’re not the centre of the fucking world, you know.”

The vampire’s face fell, his mocking joy vanishing.

“Neither are you. I was just wondering if you wanted to extend an olive branch, end our little feud.”

“I don’t give a fuck about ending this shit. You're the one with the issue. You’re the one who started it. If anyone if gonna end it, it's you.” 

Even the vampire sensed the lie. “And you’re the one who continued it. You’re playing a dangerous game here. Are you _looking_ for an argument?” 

“Are you not?” The words left Wednesday’s mouth in a sudden snarl before he could stop himself.

It felt like time skidded to a halt. Ice crawled down his spine, and the vampire was so fucking still, something old and cold in his eyes. Something told Wednesday an apology was a good idea, but innate pettiness won out.

Deep down, he wanted to fight. Even deeper down, Wednesday wanted nothing more than to walk away from this encounter before it even became an argument, but it was too late.

The vampire narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. Any notion Wednesday had had of him being high was dispelled. Edsel looked too calculating to be off his head on something. “Oh I have _plenty_ to say to you, but not here. Let’s take this conversation somewhere away from humans,” he said, voice lowered to a nearly-inaudible growl. “We wouldn’t want something to happen, would we? When there’s oh-so-fragile humans nearby?”

The rest of his colony were surrounding Wednesday now, penning him in close quarters with Edsel. It was almost suffocating, the dead stench of four vampires crawling up his nose and heightening his fear until he wanted to choke.

If Edsel wanted to remove them from the public eye, he obviously wasn’t planning to say or do anything nice.

Seeing no choice but to let them lead him away and hope for peace, he surrendered.

They corralled him out of the market, down a few streets, and beyond a construction fence to a disused parking lot, up a few floors. The journey seemed both too short and too long, the streets seemed like a maze, and he didn’t like the disorienting feeling that came with being lost.

He could swear the vampires were leading him in circles, that they passed the crumbling lot at least once before they entered, but that horrible icy fear that had been forcing silence on him earlier had returned. It was far stronger now he was with the vampires, like an ancient, frozen presence was physically holding his tongue down in his mouth.

The traffic sounded so distant once they were inside on an upper floor, the concrete bricks making up the barriers also blocking out a horrible amount of noise. He couldn’t even see anyone save for the undead colony, not even through the windows of the surrounding high-rise buildings. Wednesday felt terribly alone, and hoped this fight - no point lying anymore about what was going to go down - wouldn’t last too long.

If this lasted less than ten minutes, if he managed to avoid getting hit in the face, the rest of the band wouldn’t even have to know he fought Edsel.

Feeling better about his chances, he gave a look around his new surroundings, he saw the rest of the colony had stayed near the entrance.

That was good. At least they weren’t going to get involved. It was just Edsel against him, and he was at his strongest whilst the vampire was probably at his weakest, even out of the light. The odds were stacked in his favour; he didn’t need to be scared.

“So. You wanna fight, huh?” Edsel’s mouth was a cocky gash, jaw set so fang poked out, and Wednesday was almost waiting for him to try to rip his throat out.

“I wanna talk, I guess.” He forced his face into a blank, dopey expression he saved for interviews, playing up the Bible Belt hick his accent implied.

The vampire didn’t buy it, shaking his head. Dreads scattered about, swaying in the light breeze. “If you wanted to talk you’d have approached me. Nah. You wanna fight.”

“I was buying comics! I didn’t even know you were there! Anyway, like I said earlier, what do you want? You didn’t have to approach me.”

“You were waiting to be noticed, you’re a fucking attention whore.”

“Not true!” It was, but if he kept Edsel arguing petty shit it wouldn’t escalate into whatever issue he wanted to fight.

Maybe Wednesday was still a bit scared of the vampire. Maybe he didn’t _want_ to fight. Maybe so. What of it?

It wasn’t working, his attempts to distract the vampire. However stupid he thought Edsel to be, he was wrong.

He was not the only one who pretended to be dumber than he really was. “Oh, shut the fuck up! I’m not here to argue that shit with you!”

“What do you wanna talk about?!” He already knew, but better to get it over and done with.

“You know!”

“No I don't.” Wednesday momentarily decided to refuse to admit he knew anything. Maybe it would be better to admit, but he would continue down this path.

“What the fuck have you done to my bassist? You’re a fucking werewolf! If you’ve done anything I fucking swear I’ll-”

“Oh, is this what this is all about?!” He’d already guessed as much, that Edsel would make Acey a part of their issue like two children fighting over a ragdoll, but better to act outraged than admit he knew. “Have you fucking asked him yet? Or have you just made up your mind with no evidence and decided to just go for my throat over it?”

Edsel paused, his face switching between about four different emotions, all of them embarrassed at being shown up in front of his colony, but then the New Yorker snarled, hiding shame with rage in much the same way Wednesday knew he did.

Finding even this small similarity between them was disturbing enough for Wednesday to have to put an effort into not shuddering. He was _nothing_ like Edsel. _Nothing_.

“If you’ve done _anything_ , if you’ve hurt him in any way at all, I swear I’ll rip your fucking throat out!”

“I wouldn’t hurt a bandmate! He’s staying out of our shit and I’m letting him. If he wants to stay he stays and if he wants to mind his own business I’ll let him!”

More emotions crossed the vampire’s face, all of them tender, and Wednesday saw an opening.

Violence was inevitable, but if he made the vampire throw the first hit, it wouldn’t be his fault, right? He would just be retaliating, and it would just be Edsel’s fault for being so hot tempered. 

“You certainly seem to _miss_ him a lot,” he said as casually as his fear would allow, strolling around the open space like he wasn’t afraid of Edsel and his little colony. He hoped the vampire couldn’t hear his thudding heart betraying him. 

Edsel fell into the trap with an angry snarl, either deaf to his heartbeat or too riled up to pay attention to anything other than Wednesday’s words. “Not like that! I’ve known him longer than you have, you asshat! I don’t like harm to come to my people, and he’s still one of them!” And had been the sole human, and someone who Edsel hadn’t parted ways with especially well. 

If his heart was still able to pump, Wednesday wondered how red in the face the vampire would be.

“Not anymore.” Acey wasn’t anyone’s people, and Wednesday almost couldn’t believe he was about to get into a fight with a vampire over a grown-ass guitarist, but he might as well go along with it. Even if he was beginning to think this all a waste of time, that they could never come to a consensus despite how much they smacked each other in the face, it would be satisfying to let some rage out, especially on a vampire.

Especially on a rival.

“Acey will always be one of mine, even if he isn’t with me anymore. All of my bandmates are one of mine, even if they’re not with me now.” Except for one, but that was beside the point.

The vampire took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring.

He wasn’t exactly alive, so Wednesday idly wondered if it was more a calming tactic than a need for oxygen. “Anyway,” he continued, seeming enough like some dumb movie villian that Wednesday wanted to roll his eyes, “I’m treating yours well. I was only hoping for reciprocation.”

What? Wednesday stopped his strolling and screwed his face up, his mind turning in confusion. Who the fuck was Edsel speaking of? There were no wolves in his gang.

But-

Turning round sharply, Wednesday studied one of the vampires by the exit ramp.

The man wouldn’t make eye contact, turning away to avoid his gaze, leaving the parking level with the rest of the colony, and Wednesday studied what he could see of his brown and blond dreads and pallid face with a crawling sensation of suspicion.

Racci.

Whipping back to face Edsel, Wednesday had to take a step back. The vampire was right in front of him, barely a foot away now. A smirk was spreading on his stupid pale face, smugness fucking emanating off him.

He wasn’t entirely sure what happened next, but suddenly his fist was lashing out, and Edsel was forced to step back, letting out a roar of pain as his head snapped to the side. Pain flared in Wednesday’s knuckles in response to the punch he'd thrown, but it didn’t seem important right now.

Turning back, hand covering his nose, the vampire gave him a long, hard look, ancient, undead rage swirling in his eyes. Some preternatural instinct told Wednesday to run, but the vampire would be faster, and he was frozen with shock at how own actions anyway.

Now there truly was no turning back.

What had he done?

When Edsel finally removed his hand from his face Wednesday saw the blood streaming down from his nose. There wasn’t a bend, unfortunately, but at least he had managed to do a vampire damage.

Good. Some of his fear dissipated, and he clenched his now clammy hands, wiping them on his jeans.

He didn’t have the chance to think much more before the vampire’s fist connected with his face.

His head snapped to the side, and pain exploded in his cheek. Any satisfaction he’d felt at hitting Edsel vanished when he was sent staggering a few steps backwards, one arm swinging out to keep balance whilst the other gravitated to his face in a late attempt to protect it.

He couldn’t feel any blood welling or spilling, though it was his cheek that hurt, not his nose, and Edsel played guitar often enough that it was unlikely he had especially long fingernails.

Hopefully, a distant, tinny thought arose and made itself known, this punch hadn’t left much damage.

He was in for it now.

Oddly, he wasn’t scared anymore. The time for fear had gone, and now all he wanted was the fight he’d denied and feared earlier.

He landed another several punches, confidence growing until he was sure he would win, but then Edsel ducked one jab to grab him by the shirt and slam him back against the wall. Blood was still pouring from his nose, but it didn't seem to be affecting him.

He was already dead. What was blood loss when you weren't alive, when that blood didn’t need to carry oxygen anymore?

Pain exploded throughout Wednesday's back and head where concrete met T-shirt-covered flesh and skull, and he was half surprised the wall hadn’t cracked with the force of the vampire’s slam. Worse, the vampire was a good half foot taller, and his supernatural strength had lifted Wednesday off the ground, his knuckles pressed against his chest to keep him there, beginning to constrict his breath. The werewolf couldn’t do much other than try to get his feet to touch the ground in a panic, and Edsel was smirking again at his fear, the crook of his thin lips cold and old and evil. He tilted his head, unblinking. His smirk only twisting his mouth, not extending up to his eyes. The distance between the two expressions chilled Wednesday, and he started squirming more violently, uncontrollably. His head began to feel fuzzy from lack of oxygen, and he tried to kick the vampire. One kick hit after a few weak flails, high on the vampire’s thigh, and he roared with pain and rage. Any joy Wednesday felt at hurting the vampire immediately vanished.

“Don’t ever. Try that. Again,” Edsel leaned in to snarl, any mirth vanishing from his face. His fangs were only a couple of inches from Wednesday’s throat, and Wednesday froze, far too terrified to even move an inch. One cold hand crept up to grasp at his throat, the dead grip far too tight for Wednesday’s liking. His vision was beginning to go blurry, darkening at the edges, and his blood felt almost fizzy. Even his hearing was beginning to go, his ears ringing horribly. The vampire took the opportunity to hit Wednesday a few times, retaliation for the hits he’d got in, holding him up only by his throat, so tightly he thought his head might pop.

The first hit was a slap to his cheek that stung cold then hot, sending his head slamming to the side. The second was a solid punch to his mouth that left Wednesday bleeding and fearing he’d lost a tooth, the third a punch to the nose that made his nose pop, and he could feed the warm spread of more blood down his face. “Don’t you fucking _dare_ do anything like that again!” Edsel’s snarl rose to a roar, and Wednesday weakly spat red at the vampire, snarling with choking defiance.

Wednesday wasn’t sure how long they were like that, or even if Edsel said anything more, but the vampire wouldn’t let him go until his vision was almost completely dark, his lungs burning like he’d run a marathon.

When he was eventually let down, Edsel still wouldn’t let him up. He crouched over him, looming far too close, letting Wednesday cough his lungs back into function even as the vampire’s dead stench forced it way up his nose, making him want to choke again.

Once he’d finished coughing, Wednesday thought it was over. Yet the vampire still hadn’t finished with him.

He grabbed Wednesday by his dreads, not gently, but certainly not with the violence of half a minute ago. Wednesday could do nothing but watch, mouth open in dumb horror, frozen and numb with bloodloss and fear, as the vampire wiped the blood from his chin with his free hand, drew that hand to his mouth, and sucked the blood off his fingers with what was by far the scariest smile the werewolf ever seen. What he’d missed he dragged across Wednesday’s cheek like he was cleaning his fingers with a napkin, then leant in close and licked a trickle of blood from Wednesday’s neck, purposefully dragging his tongue over his pulse.

That kicked Wednesday into motion, and he shoved the vampire away as hard as he could, stumbling to his feet.

“What the fuck, man?!” His hand gravitated to his neck, where the vampire’s spit seemed to numb his skin.

Edsel just smirked, jutting out his chin and crossing his arms smugly.

He’d won. The vampire had won, and for all of Wednesday’s bravado, he had been beaten by a vampire, and that shook him far more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re alive,” was all the vampire said with a raise of his eyebrow, but the threat was obvious. 

Wednesday bitterly spat a final glob of blood at him, grabbed his bag, and stormed down the ramp towards the exit, leaving him with his victory. Once outside, he began the trek back to the bus, wondering how to explain it to his bandmates in a way that wouldn’t make the fight his fault.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the ending wasn't supposed to have that weird sexual tension it was supposed to be Edsel supernaturally t posing, but vampires are innately horny creatures so idk deal with it lol. Also the signed poster thing was a real contention point between them as something Edsel said in an interview with Blabbermouth in like 2002 just after Acey joined the murderdolls. Comment and kudos if you like it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acey has shit to settle with Edsel and now the chance occurs, whether he likes it or not

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stalked the entire dope tag on blabbermouth to make the tensions and shit as accurate as possible for a story that occurs on a tour that never happened. Also pov change!

Half an hour had come and gone, and Acey was wandering around the streets of London, looking for his vocalist, wishing desperately that Wednesday was easier to find, wishing that he was okay, wishing that he could be found easily.

Wishing desperately that he could swap places with Ben.

Ben was the only one still on the bus, waiting there in case Wednesday turned up before the others found him. He’d been the only one to want to stay when they’d originally planned to look for Wednesday, but now Acey was regretting his choice.

Wednesday must have fought Edsel. He wasn’t in the market - they’d checked - none of Dope were either, and there was no reason for them to be gone if they weren’t duking their shit out. 

Crap.

He’d been so happy to leave the market after seeing his old bandmates and hoping he wouldn’t be spotted by them - especially after the dream he’d had last night - that it hadn’t properly registered that Wednesday was staying behind at all, let alone that he was gonna fight. He’d been stepping on the bus when it had truly sunk in, but by then it was too late, and they’d agreed that Wednesday would have half an hour before they returned for him.

They’d all known Wednesday was staying to fight. Ben had only allowed it because he didn't want to cause a scene. Since the bridge incident, Wednesday had been longing to take a swing at a vampire, whether he’d admitted it to himself or not, and now his greatest rivals were in town, he could hardly help himself. It seemed better to let him do it now than to make him wait until he eventually lost his shit and did something he might regret. His time constraint of half an hour was only damage control.

Would a time constraint have ever really mattered? He was late and missing, and this would have always happened without it. It only made them aware that he was gone.

Acey’s musings were cut short by that horrible tingle down his spine, appearing so suddenly he flinched like he’d been burnt, trying to ignore the strange looks he received from passersby.

Since the bridge encounter it seemed like there were vampires everywhere he went. London was the worst, it seemed, but he had been getting better at pushing past the feeling, until he could - sometimes literally - shake it off and ignore it. Seeing his old band had apparently put that fear back into him, and now nothing seemed to get rid of the feeling if any vamps were around him, leaving him paranoid that he’d land himself into a world of shit before someone could stop Edsel’s freight-train temper.

How the fuck could he explain it to them, that he’d become a wolf for safety and a desire to not get left behind, not because he’d picked a side in their stupid feud? They might verbally accept it, but Acey didn’t want to bear the accusing looks he’d get. Virus might be pretty chill about it, old enough to be mature about it all and not really give a shit, but Racci and Sloane, or whoever had replaced him, would probably give him hell, and Edsel would stare bitterly at him when he didn’t think Acey was watching him, still upset at how he left Dope, always unable to let anything go.

Frustrated, Acey made a beeline for the nearest bench and sat down, trying to ignore the tingle getting worse, like he was being stalked.

That was an alley of thought he didn’t want to get stuck down. 

He hated this stupid fear. Maybe once it had been useful, before humans had created a society that inadvertently kept his lot safe, but it was draining him, making him so constantly paranoid and scared for what always turned out to be no reason, making him marvel every other werewolf when he had the energy to, at how unaffected they seemed to be. On stage was the only time he felt normal, where no-matter how strong that tingle was, he was doing what he loved, feeling as confident as a god, basking in the warmth of lights and adoration.

Feeling an irritatingly familiar headache form, he closed his eyes, massaging his temples in a useless attempt to dispel it.

He sat like this for a while, ignoring the world. If he ignored everything except the weak wintry sunlight on his head and arms, it was almost blissful.

The stupid fucking tingle that had been following him, coming from one vampire, suddenly creshendoed to ice down his back at the same time a voice spoke up from next to him.

“It’s been a while.”

Acey didn’t think he’d ever jumped so violently, jolting upright like he’d suffered an electric shock and opening his eyes with a “shit!” ripping from his mouth at a volume that attracted the baleful gaze of passersby.

Edsel was sat on the bench next to him, filling out the space with his stringy limbs. He seemed calm, lounging like he was on a sofa smoking the pot he so loved, but there was something terrifyingly still about him, his eyes far too cold for him to be truly calm, and his nose had been bleeding, the bruising and swelling suggesting from a punch. The blood hadn’t been wiped away properly underneath his nostrils, either, and he looked far more dangerous than Acey had ever seen him look. There was a nasty, thin quirk to his mouth - Acey refused to call it a smirk - from watching him jump.

The past three years seemed to vanish into nothing. Acey felt lightheaded again, fear ratcheting up beyond what he’d felt earlier, even beyond what he’d felt on the bridge a month ago. It almost felt like he had only just left Dope in uncertain circumstances, and the rage and selfish hurt was still fresh for Edsel.

Fresh for them both.

He forced his voice to be even despite how dry his mouth was, despite how wobbly his stomach felt. Edsel had always been terrifying when he was pissed, taller and stronger and meaner than Acey, and he sure as fuck wasn’t as calm as he was pretending to be right now. His fangs were poking out of his mouth, the pale tips glinting in the wintry sun, a sure indication of his temper, and there was something challenging in his eyes, wild, untamed, punch-drunk rage like he thought he could take on the world and win.

Whilst he’d never been on the physical receiving end of Edsel’s temper, even after he left Dope, he’d always had a healthy fear of it, especially as a human, had done since he'd seen Edsel fire other bandmates after backstage screaming matches and fistfights. Even the chance of being on the receiving end of it right now made his fear crank up, but fear would never get him anywhere, and they were in public. “It’s been three years,” he said tentatively, refusing to break eye contact. Best to let Edsel make the first move.

“Too long.” Edsel’s smirk fell when his nose twitched, and he took a deep theatrical sniff, leaning forwards, towards him in a way that had Acey longing to lean away. “You’re a wolf.” His voice was coated in disgust, though he must have already guessed it, face twisting into a silent snarl. Acey didn’t know whether to flinch or roll his eyes.

“Yes.” Even admitting it felt wrong, even though Edsel had not yet shown any of the rage Acey had been expecting, only giving an occasional twitch of anger, silent for far too long. 

“How long since Wednesday turned you?” The question was small and pointed, and Acey was barely managing not giving in to the urge to roll his eyes. 

“Two years.” Edsel’s face twitched at that, into rage and betrayal, before reverting back to false calm.

There was that anger again, swirling just beneath the surface, enough that Acey couldn’t control the flinch that shuddered through his body, a memory of the fight between Edsel and Simon that had made their keyboardist make his mind up about taking a break from music.

If Edsel was hiding his rage, that must mean that it was on the verge of being out of control, and he likely wanted to strangle him.

That thought made Acey want to cringe into the bench until he disappeared, but he had to just face him. None of the shit between them would ever get solved if they didn’t talk it out.

This conversation had been brewing for three years, and whilst he didn’t want to ever have it, he had to.

“Can’t have a human gallivanting about in his band now, eh?” Edsel’s words were a sour series of spits, his face screwing into betrayed anger. “Can’t share a bandmate with anyone else without leaving his own fucking mark?” To punctuate his rage, the vampire leaned in close and dug his fingers into Acey’s leg, threatening to bruise - to leave a ‘fucking mark’ like Wednesday had done.

Only an impermanent one, not a mark that could never fade. 

Acey blinked, any fear dissipating, the pain in his thigh not quite catching up. He hadn’t been expecting this possessiveness, not from the vampire who’d rejected Turning him almost once a week for five years, who’d talked shit about him in nearly every damn interview if the conversation meandered that way, especially after Acey had said that he’d nearly left Dope twice before he actually did.

He rubbed his forehead in frustration and confusion, his headache returning.

“He’d had a few beers, and I’d been pestering him all evening. It’s as much my fault as his.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Suddenly Edsel was right next to him, disgusted and betrayed and angry, and he could only start to sweat nervously at the vampire. “Why the fuck would you do that?!” He ignored the disapproving looks from passers by. 

Fear rose, along with his own temper, and the dam broke. Fuck passersby and their fucking sensibilities. It wasn’t like they’d understand the conversation anyway. “For safety! I was a fucking human, surrounded by vampires and werewolves and everything else! How easily could they have killed me?! How easily could you have killed me, if you were anyone else?! I know you couldn’t turn me, I know why, but you can’t keep me safe forever! And I can’t live with being the fragile one, the one who needs to be protected from everything! It’s not fair on me, and it’s certainly not fair on everyone else to have to watch out for me like I’m a little child! And-” he cut himself off, taking a shuddering breath, almost like he was about to cry, eight years of frustration and misery bubbling up. After a deep breath, he continued. “And I don't want to grow old when my bandmates won’t, don’t want to have to stand next to them when they still have mobility I no longer have, don’t want to stare at my own death when they never will and endure nothing but their pity. I don’t want to get left behind again.” The final sentence was barely a murmur, but Edsel had softened like he’d heard it all the same.

With his hearing, he probably had. He sat back, out of Acey’s personal space, sighing like he was only just figuring out why he’d left, why he’d been wanting to long before he eventually had done.

Despite his constant claims to the contrary, Edsel could be utterly stupid when it suited him, refusing to think or really listen if he knew that more information and consideration would make him look like an asshole. “You have the better end of it, don’t you? You’re still alive, and you can stand in the sun and feel its warmth instead of pain.” He pulled his sleeve up and let the sun burn him, his arm beginning to turn red before he pulled his sleeve down again. “You only pay the price once a month.”

“It’s not your fault.” Both of them were speaking softly now, any rage and bitterness gone. “You wouldn’t be able to protect me forever, but it’s not your fault.”

Edsel’s head jolted upright at that, irritation raising its head. “Of course it was! I could barely protect you from our own bandmate! If I’d turned you, after an early tour, when we were home and there were no drugs or schedule to distract us so you could Settle, it wouldn’t have happened!”

Acey froze and sucked in a breath, shocked that Edsel had brought  _ him  _ up, suddenly taken back to a time five years ago, a time he refused to even allude to, where  _ his  _ (no, don’t think of him, please don’t, leave it in the past where it belongs) fangs were right by his throat, and  _ he’d _ been grinning at his fear, saying that  _ he’d _ enjoy killing him, shoving him against the wall backstage when they were alone, pinning him and smirking at his whimpers and stuttered pleas, a hand around his throat.

All because he was no longer the sole guitarist, and had to share duties with a human.

It had taken both Simon and Racci to drag the errant vampire away, with Edsel giving  _ him _ \- Acey would never mention his name, even in his thoughts - a firm warning that he was out of order, and a threat that if  _ he _ did it again being fired from the band was the kindest consequence.

_ He _ was older than them all, though, by nearly a decade, and saw himself as above them, too stupid and cruel to heed Edsel. Within a week  _ he’d _ been kicked out, Edsel finding a quick replacement to join Acey.

“He’s not here. He’s never going to be again.” Acey almost couldn’t hear Edsel, his voice was so soft.

“I know.” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes I still have dreams about it.” Edsel’s hand gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. Acey didn’t register the red and purple and swelling on his knuckles until after he said, “There it’s worse, and I’m fucking helpless.” Acey wanted to say more, but registered the bruising, the evidence of a fight on Edsel’s hands shocking him silent until his mouth formed words without his permission. “There you don’t get to me in time. No-one does.”

Edsel’s hand remained for a few seconds, before dropping to the bench. Acey regretted letting the final, gruesome detail of his dream slip, and chose not to mention he’d had the dream again last night.

“I should have kicked him out right there, the first time.” He took a breath like he always did when he had to admit something or when he didn’t want to lose his temper. “I was scared of him. I feared him, and he knew it. He was older and bigger and stronger, and I thought I should always at least listen to him, if not follow him. And that’s on me, what he did to you.

“I was considering Turning you after that, after the tour ended. I didn’t want to do it without you asking, so I never did, but I wanted to.”

“I should have asked. I know you had refused me before, so I didn’t, but I should have done. Things had changed.”

“There’s too much we should have done.” Edsel was staring into space, ghosts of what might have been obviously haunting him.

Had Acey been Turned, he might still be in Dope. Still sharing axe duties with Virus, still bothering Mosey - or whoever had replaced him if he’d gone - still putting up with Racci practicing drumming in his bunk below him, drumming away on the top of his bunk specifically to piss Acey off.

Had Acey been Turned, he would never have considered joining the Murderdolls.

He wasn’t going to say that out loud, especially to Edsel.

“I’m sorry.” The words ripped out of his mouth before he had the chance to withhold them, but he didn’t let himself regret it. He hadn’t left Dope cleanly, and underneath the public bravado and snark he could tell Edsel had been deeply hurt.

It took a while for Edsel to reply, but just when Acey was settling with the fact he might never be redeemed in the other man's eyes, Edsel spoke up, regret deep in his eyes.

“I think I might have more to be sorry for.”

He might have said more, but they both looked up at a yell, heads jerking in the direction of Racci, who was walking towards them, looking frustrated. “There you are. Wondered where the fuck you’d got to!” He ignored the dirty looks he received at his language, scowling at his vocalist.

Edsel laid his hand over Acey’s for a few seconds, his fingers gripping Aceys’ like he was desperate for him to understand, mumbled another apology, and stood to head off towards his drummer. Racci crossed his arms at him, but then caught sight of Acey, his scowl melting into a wide grin.

“Yo, Ace! It’s been years! How the fuck have you been, dude?”

Acey stood, not entirely certain he wanted to be seated around two vampires, but he found it easy enough to wrestle his face into a wide grin, only now realising how much he had missed him. “It’s been too long. I’ve been good, though. Keepin’ busy. How’ve you been?”

Racci replied by dragging him into a vicious hug, slapping his back in the usual manner like he was trying to leave a bruise, his dreads swinging into Acey’s face like old times. Acey could feel him inhale deeply and momentarily freeze, and knew that Racci could tell he was a wolf, but Racci simply relaxed again and pulled out of the hug. “Things have changed, huh?” Somehow he was still smiling, this one reaching his eyes like he held no malice at all. Acey could feel cold, queasy regret in his stomach, that he’d thought Racci might hate him. Before he could reply, though, Racci turned to Edsel, only giving Acey a sideways glance like it was private information he was about to pass on, and Acey was struck with a pang of sadness that he was no longer a part of Dope. “Virus is having opinions about things, and they concern you more than us, after today. Sorry to cut this all short, but I’m on a mission to find Edsel and return with him.” He pulled a face at Acey like he was tired of hearing whatever their eldest bandmate was complaining about, and straightened his posture, giving a mock salute to the orders of his elder. They all laughed, Acey reminded of old times, when Virus could easily switch between dad and drill sergeant to the band, yanking Acey out of trouble - quite literally sometimes, arms around his waist and dragging him away from a potential fight with some huge drunk bro-dude with vampire strength. “We should catch up though, sometime. See you around?”

Acey nodded. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

He wanted to say that he was also tasked with finding a vocalist, but given the evidence of the fight, he surmised it was wiser to stay quiet on that front. With mumbled farewells and plans to stay in contact, they all parted ways.

Strolling along the streets as he distractedly looked for his dread-headed vocalist, Acey wondered how much his own fears had made him think unfairly of his old band. They might have gone through several members since he joined the band, but they had always either stayed close, or been very separate. Once one person left on bad terms it wasn’t just Edsel who moved on from them but everyone, and Acey had already been paranoid about being left behind, even before he’d left. 

But Edsel was full of bravado, always making himself out to be far more callous and angry than he truly was. Acey had left him hanging, he couldn’t deny that, so Ed had had every right to be angry.

The truth, if he wanted to admit it, was that he’d thought he’d meant too much to Edsel for him to have lashed out the way he had done, and it had shaken him deeply, been a proper ego-check for him.

His cell started ringing in his pocket, yanking him out of his thoughts. Digging it out and flipping it open, he saw it was Eric calling him.

“Yeah?” He slowed to a halt, ducking into the doorway of an empty shop to let passerby go past him.

“We’re back on the bus. We found him, and, uhhh, it isn’t pretty. You might wanna get back real quick, so we can pack up and leave London before more shit occurs. And you might wanna help, cuz Joey can barely calm him.” Eric’s tinny voice sounded almost scared, and between his words Acey could hear raised voices.

Shit. Edsel had been almost fuming with rage when he’d first sat down on the bench, but Acey doubted he’d lost a fight, even with an imminent full moon.

That left one option.

“Shit. On my way. See ya in ten or whatever.”

Flipping his phone shut and stuffing it into his pocket, Acey paused, letting out his breath in one long huff, anything to steel himself for whatever shit Wednesday wanted to cause.

Why the fuck was he stuck dealing with Wednesday’s shit, he griped, when Wednesday would never reciprocate. If he ever ended up in such a mess he had no doubt Wednesday would be the first to laugh at his misfortune, before leaving whatever help Acey needed to someone else.

He stretched, popping his neck and back, anything for a slight delay, thoroughly depressed, then began the walk to the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t think that irl Edsel dope is super scary but he is an absolute unit and for the sake of this story a vampire, and Acey is still getting used to not being human and dealing with his new supernatural-spider-sense vampire fear so I followed that mental path. And the italicised him is a real person but he’s a piece of human shit I refuse to name or give attention to further than the three paragraphs. Kudos and comments would be much appreciated as always!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Acey is the long-suffering mom-friend despite his best wishes and efforts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two updates on the same day? Wow who is this productivity queen? Tumblr plug: extreme-introvert

By the time Acey got back, Wednesday was bouncing around the bus in rage, pacing back and forth with a horrible kind of frenetic fury, ranting and waving his bruised arms about like he was possessed, his voice rough like Edsel had almost strangled him. He hadn’t done a great job cleaning himself up either, and blood was still dripping from his nose and the corner of his mouth from time to time.

Quite frankly, he looked like shit, bruised and scraped to all hell; the back of his shirt shredded and faintly bloodstained, his eyes black from a broken nose, and his neck dappled purple and red with huge fingerprints. He looked so bad it was almost like he’d gone through a wood chipper.

Or been slammed against a concrete wall and repeatedly punched by a vampire, which Acey knew to be the reality.

Ben was leaning against the pullout cupboard that contained their unrefrigerated food with his arms crossed, eyes rolling back in his head at every other sentence like he was sick of listening to Wednesday rant. Eric was curled up on the sofa with wide, concerned eyes peeking just above a pillow he was clutching like a shield, out of potential harm’s way. Joey was mumbling soothing words from time to time from his perch on the counter, some failing effort to calm Wednesday down.

Acey didn’t think it was possible to calm him just yet, and then steadied himself against a handrail as the bus driver started up the engine and began to drive them to whatever had been deemed a safe enough distance between Wednesday and Edsel.

“WHO THE FUCK DOES HE THINK HE IS, AND WHERE THE FUCK DOES HE GET OFF WITH THIS SHIT?!” Wednesday’s voice crescendoed to a screech of utter hysteria, and Acey was torn between comforting him, running and hiding from potentially destructive rage, or laughing at him like he knew Wednesday would if their roles were reversed.

Though Acey would never be screaming like this, just sat quietly, waiting until he had someone to talk it over with. “AND HE FUCKING LICKED MY NECK! RIGHT OVER MY FUCKING PULSE! HE’S LUCKY HE’S ALREADY DEAD OR I WOULD FUCKING STRANGLE HIM! WHAT THE FUCK?!” Pacing like he was trying to stamp a hole in the carpet, Wednesday finally paused for breath. Acey saw his chance, jumping in before Joey could start mumbling soothing crap.

He was just tired of all this enmity, he told himself. He wasn’t trying to help for the sake of it.

_Yeah, I’ll keep telling myself that. Maybe one day I’ll believe it._

“You’re gonna make yourself sick if you keep screaming like that.”

Wednesday paused at the sound of him and whipped round so fast he nearly fell over, calming for a second, before he screwed his face up and started shouting again. “HE FUCKING LICKED ME! ON MY NECK! ON MY FUCKING _PULSE_! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM?!”

Sighing, Acey decided to try for a joke, not seeing any other way to diffuse the situation calmly. It was only half of one, but it seemed to at least make some of Wednesday’s shitty mood dissipate. “There’s lots wrong with him, but I can’t say anything specific unless you tell me what happened.”

A smirk twitched at Wednesday’s mouth before he scowled again, and even Eric seemed to lighten up a bit, relaxing his grip on his stuffed fabric shield. “They surrounded me in the market, and basically dragged me to some abandoned parking lot. He chatted absolute shit for a while and then taunted me that Racci was originally in my band, and that he’d turned him. We fought.” He was silent for a few seconds, then reddened with shame. “He won.” The words were wrestled from his mouth in sullen near-silence, quiet enough that Acey was glad of his supernatural hearing.

“And then you wandered punch-drunk along the streets of old London Town until you reunited with us. Are you more angry that you lost or that he rubbed it in your face?”

Wednesday glared, anger back, head tilting in wolfish rage. “He. Licked. Me. What the fuck?!” Each word was little more than a growl, and it was close enough to a full moon that fangs were lowering from his bruised mouth.

Once, Acey would have been afraid, but he wasn’t human anymore, was taller and stronger and older than Wednesday, and he had the same supernatural advantages, so he only crossed his arms.

“Yes. He’s weird.” Acey paused, wondering what he could say before Wednesday started screaming again, before picking on the bruising and blood. “Look. You’re hurt. You’re still bleeding, and you look like you need more than a few ice packs. It’s been a long day. Why don’t you go clean and up and have a lie down?”

Wednesday opened and closed his mouth a few times, scowled, and skulked off to his bunk to grab his towel. When the bathroom door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the whole bus and the shower started up, Acey turned to his bandmates.

“Was he ranting about that for ages, then?”

“Yep.” Ben huffed, trying not to grin. “He’s in utter fucking outrage over it, and that the rest of the colony saw him get his ass handed to him. He’s more pissed I think that he lost, though.” Acey hmmd and went to pour himself a glass of water. He wasn’t surprised that Wednesday’s pride was stinging, especially as he was supposed to be at his strongest, just surprised at the extent of his shame. 

“Does Edsel have a habit of doing that?” Joey wondered, shifting away from the sink so he wouldn’t suffer the splashback from the temperamental kitchen tap before twisting his arm into the cupboard to grab his own glass. “It seems like a pretty weird thing to do, even to a rival.”

“Oh, no.” Acey shrugged dismissively, filling up Joey’s glass. “One time, I won’t say who we were touring with for their sake, but they were a bunch of young vampires and a couple humans. One of the humans kept pissing us off - on purpose - and Virus eventually got into it with them, and, well it was less licking and more dragging his fangs on the dude’s pulse, but it’s the first time I know of Edsel doing it. It was a threat that ‘you’re still alive and I can change that so you’d better develop some fucking manners’, and a kinda, assertion of dominance on the other vamps, that they couldn’t stop him, so I guess Edsel just stole it from Virus. But Edsel probably only meant it in the former part, not the ‘develop manners’ bit.”

“It’s still weird.” Ben screwed his face up. 

“Tell me about it,” Acey grumbled, deciding not to start bitching about how much he knew vampires were obsessed with necks. If he started he wouldn’t stop, and it wasn’t the time or place to say it or embarrass both himself and his old bandmates.

“Vampires are horny weirdos,” Eric interjected, still on the sofa, twisting his mouth into a combination of a smirk and a grimace. “All blood-fixated, and they're always trying to be so seductive.” They all looked at him. “What? I swear it’s true! They all are! Ugh!”

Acey turned and shared a look with Ben at that, mouthing ‘Gen’ at him like a total hypocrite. Ben ducked his head away to hide his smirk. “Cheers to that.” Acey toasted the air with a grin, turning to face Eric with a saintly smile, like he hadn’t mouthed anything.

“Cheers to horny weirdos. And the end of the tour!” Joey poured himself more water and clinked glasses with Acey, giving him an easy grin.

“Full moon in a couple days, and then we’re off home!” Ben punched the air in joy. Eric finally stood and joined them.

“Oh god I miss my own bed. And my cat. But I’m mostly looking forward to not listening to Sasquatch over here snoring all night.” Eric elbowed Ben before rifling the cupboards for Hot Pockets. Ben grabbed the Hot Pocket box before the bassist could and held it above Eric’s head in retaliation. Eric whined and started jumping for the box, but Ben simply rose onto his toes to hold the box an extra couple inches away from Eric’s fingers, before lifting it above his own head. After a few seconds Ben lowered it in a feint and, making eye contact with Acey with a grin, swerved and tossed the box to him. Acey caught it easily, moving his arm around randomly so Eric couldn’t predict where he would go next, paused to let him lunge for it with raised eyebrows, then he grinned wildly and stepped back, and passed the box behind his back to Joey, who waggled it at Eric teasingly for a second before tossing it back to Ben, his mouth changing from a wide-eyed ‘o’ of surprise to a grin to copy Acey’s.

“You guys suck!” Eric pouted, crossing his arms and scowling for a second, then lunging for the box again.

“Apologise for calling me a Sasquatch,” Ben returned, raising his eyebrows and grinning challengingly.

“No.” Eric elbowed him in the ribs, hard enough to make Ben fold down in late protection for his side with a grunt of pain, but he tossed the box to Joey before Eric could grab it and then put him in a headlock much like he’d done to Joey that morning.

Eric squealed and started smacking Ben in an attempt to get him to set him free, whilst Acey and Joey laughed at their bassist’s misfortune. “Ugh! Fuck you guys.”

His yelling and struggling increased once Ben started mussing his hair, fingers entwined in the dark strands and yanking so he was shaking Eric’s head about within the headlock and pulling his hair. After a minute or so and a condescending pat, he let go.

Once Ben had set him free, Joey and Acey passed the box back and forth for a minute, before Acey decided to take pity on Eric and give him the box. “Thank you Acey.” Eric clutched the box to his chest and tilted his head at Acey in gratitude with a prim smile, before animalistically ripping the box open and grabbing a Hot Pocket to microwave. Whilst it was heating up, he set about rearranging his hair.

“Fuckers,” he sniffed. Ben ruffled his hair again, then relented to let Eric eat.

Silence reigned for a few seconds, with only the shower making any noise. During that time Ben was staring with narrowed eyes and a conspiring smile, deep in thought.

Ben thinking was scary enough, but he was staring straight at Acey whilst thinking, and that wasn’t good. “You good dude?” He let out a nervous chuckle to try to get Ben to stop, but Ben simply tilted his head, looking more and more calculated and wolfish by the second.

When he eventually replied, mouth stretching to a wide grin, it did nothing to assuage Acey’s nerves. “You’re the only one here I haven’t put into a headlock today.”

“I haven’t done anything!” Acey ducked away when Ben took a step towards him, spookily silent.

Ben didn’t actually put him in a headlock, deciding to relent and lean against the counter again, watching him through lazy narrowed eyes. “You gave the Hot Pockets to Eric,” he said eventually with a cold, wide grin, raising his eyebrows like he was considering lunging across the bus to grab him.

Before anything more could happen, the bathroom door opened and a soggy, miserable Wednesday limped out. The four cut their shit out to keep an eye on him, but he simply yanked on a pair of sweatpants and stumbled over to the sofa, curling his legs up to his chest. After a few seconds of silence, where nobody knew what to say, Wednesday mumbled something into his bony knees.

“What was that?” Joey leaned forward, his dark hair falling into a curtain, shielding his face from everyone but their vocalist.

With a small start, Acey realised that however much Wednesday and Edsel had their rivalry, it had started with Joey being the centre of Edsel’s ire. They might have nothing anymore, Edsel’s rage shifting target, but it began with Joey.

He wished it had ended with Joey.

“I think I want bourbon.” Wednesday’s voice was tiny, weak.

Whatever he had been thinking about in the shower, it had obviously stripped the ego from him.

 _Good._ Acey tried to push that thought away whilst he poured bourbon into a glass, knowing instinctively that nothing good would come of following that path. “Don’t drink it too quickly. Have some food before you finish the glass, too,” he warned before handing it over.

Once Wednesday would have mocked him, anything to start an argument, but he just nodded dumbly and sipped the drink. Eric set about microwaving another Hot Pocket.

“Is your back still bleeding?”

“Think so. I don’t know.” Wednesday put his glass down and covered his face with his hands, grunting into his palms with the sort of exhaustion of someone who’s had their entire day turned around with no warning. Acey leant over him to assess the mess, then silently reached for the cupboard they kept the first aid kit in. Ben assisted in retrieving it, flipping it open with practiced ease.

“Have you disinfected the cuts yet?” He already knew the answer would be no, but disinfecting the injuries without asking would only stoke Wednesday’s shitty mood.

Wednesday shook his head.

Acey ripped open a swab packet and opened the disinfectant. The smell, so unfortunately close to vodka that he closed his eyes for a second and willed his mind not to drift to past memories, hit his nose, delicate from the full moon, and he scrunched his face up as he wet the swab. Passing the bottle to make it Ben’s problem, he bent over and dabbed it over every blood-crusted scrape, making inarticulate cooing noises when Wednesday flinched and growled with the sting, his temper beginning to slowly rise again.

Whilst he was disinfecting his bandmate, Joey busied himself with ripping open band aid packets and selecting bruise creams.

Once Eric had delivered the Hot Pocket, he and Ben made themselves scarce, both heading for their bunks to give the trio as much privacy as they could give on the cramped bus.

Joey started up his consolatory cooing and mumbling again, rubbing the bruise cream into Wednesday’s throat and face with a sort of tender gentleness, seeming so saintly and nurse-like Acey wondered how many times this sort of thing had happened before he’d joined the ‘Dolls. He knew that Wednesday was temperamental at best, had known that since the singer had been in Frankenstein Drag Queens and he’d been in VLD, and he’d read Wednesday boasting about kicking the asses of those who insulted him, but he’d never known what the aftermath looked like, and had never known if he’d lost before. Joey had been by his side for five years now, though, and was likely well-versed in fulfilling whatever role was needed of him.

Not wanting to linger on whatever the fuck train of thought he was on, almost dreading the station it would stop at, Acey busied himself with putting band aids on Wednesday’s back.

Once they were done giving what little medical care they could give, the three of them curled up on the sofa, Acey and Joey on either side of Wednesday, offering hugs and soothing words he was in a humble enough mood to accept, hugging back with only the quietest grunts when they accidentally passed over a cut or bruise.

At one point, when Acey was half asleep, dozing on Wednesday’s shoulder, Joey got up, mumbling something about hunger and piss that Acey wasn’t awake enough to process properly. Wednesday only grunted, and when Joey had gone, he’d kicked his legs up onto the sofa again, slipping his arms around Acey like he was hugging a pillow.

“If you tell anyone about this I’ll kill you,” he threatened, but they were both half asleep, him mumbling into Acey’s shoulder, and they both chuckled, Acey hugging him fiercely, trying to translate all his support and sympathy into his hug, trying to let Wednesday know he’d be a shoulder to cry on, be it literally or figuratively.

 _Why the fuck can’t he ever reciprocate?_

Not long later, Acey dragged his legs up onto the sofa too, kicking his shoes off and across the bus and ignoring their thuds, and they shifted around and fell asleep, Wednesday eventually winding up snoring on top of his guitarist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Eric for being short :(. Next chapter is not as cheerful so sorry in advance. Please kudos or comment if you’re enjoying it I thrive off feedback


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the constant mom-friend has its downsides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters in one day?! Though I think I’ll make this my new update schedule. Tumblr is extreme-introvert :)

Acey woke, grunting because he’d _finally_ had a good night’s sleep - and hadn’t even had a bad dream for once - to Wednesday shifting around. Blinking at the sunlight, he gasped out a quiet wince when the other man’s bony elbow connected with his stomach, and curled up to protect himself from further bruises, looking at Wednesday through narrowed eyes to see if another accidental, gasp-inducing jab seemed likely.

It didn’t.

What did make him nearly gasp again, caught so suddenly and awe-fully off guard, was how strangely, intangibly, incredibly _beautiful_ Wednesday looked in the pale, wintry sunlight.

Wednesday had always had some form of noticeable good looks to him, but they had always been rugged, feral, almost untamed. Now it seemed like they had altered or shifted in the night, to something almost spectral or fey, something oddly, for lack of a better word in Acey’s sleepy state, divine. Wednesday’s face had recently become far more angular, what he’d joked as the final remnants of baby fat disappearing, and he had dyed the red out of his dreads months ago, but it was only now that there was something about those changes that somehow made him seem almost saintly.

Acey shook his head at that thought. God wasn’t real, and neither was any heavenly form of beauty. He’d seen enough of the world, seen enough of humanity and werewolves and vampires to know that if there was some form of god out there, it didn’t give two shits. It had toyed with Earth and fucked off elsewhere, stripping any divine beauty and justice as it left.

“Mornin’.” The Southern drawl was little more than a sleepy, scratchy grunt, a guttural noise that seemed to ground him, stripping the ethereal beauty from the werewolf, the delicate prettiness returned to normal solid handsomeness. Acey returned the greeting and cleared his throat, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He sat, and winced again, pain shooting through his arms and back when he stretched. He pouted and rubbed at the pain until it went away, grumbling to himself, working methodically down his back before he shook his arms out to regain proper blood flow. Once that was done he popped his neck, grimacing at the loud number of clicks it made.

He would never, he vowed, sleep on a sofa again. How the fuck Edsel managed, he didn’t know.

Whilst he’d been stretching and internally griping over back pain, Wednesday had stood and headed to his bunk. When he passed Acey again he had pulled on a hoodie and sneakers, and he mumbled something about going to get breakfast. Acey nodded sleepily, barely noting Wednesday’s departure from the bus save for confusion because they already had breakfast foods, but he sat back and let the quiet wash over him.

It was so wonderfully, unusually quiet for the Murderdolls tour bus, the only noise the roaring murmur of Ben’s snoring, the kind of calm tranquility that only came with the few dawns Acey saw on tour, when everyone else was asleep and he could sit on the sofa sipping coffee without disturbance. It was the sort of quiet he loved, especially in the morning, but any enjoyance was stolen when he bent over to reach for his shoes and was alerted to _exactly_ how full his bladder was. With an irritated grunt he stood and padded over to the bathroom.

Once he’d finished, hoping he hadn’t made too much noise and woken his bandmates, he headed back towards the main area to make coffee.

As he passed the bunks, a hand shot out and groped around to grab at his. After a second of silent shock in which he processed who’s hand it was, Acey relaxed.

“Morning Joey.” He waited for his co-axeman to crawl out of bed, yawning and popping his shoulders whilst avoiding Joey’s wildly swaying legs.

Joey stood and stretched, his spine making a series of pops and crunches, then led him to the kitchen area, briefly starting at Wednesday’s absence, and started making coffee for them both. Once the coffee was made, milked and sugared to both their tastes, and he’d handed a cup across, he started talking, quietly so as not to wake their rhythm section.

“How is he?”

Acey shrugged. “He _seemed_ okay. He’s gone out, getting breakfast. We got cereal, though, even his Trix, and coffee, and even bread despite Eric’s best efforts, so I’m not sure what he’s actually up to. I think he maybe just wants a walk to clear his head or something.” Especially after yesterday afternoon’s _\- let's be frank -_ cuddling. 

Part of him hated that he’d put so much thought into Wednesday’s absence.

Part of him hated even more that he’d thought about it whilst taking his piss, knowing that if Wednesday knew he’d chat shit about thinking about him whilst touching his dick.

Joey nodded thoughtfully, his eyebrows pulled down into a frown that meant he was chewing over his own words.

“It’s a full moon tonight,” was all he said, beginning to comb his fingers through his hair.

“You think he’s feeling better, then?” Acey began to fiddle with one dread, idly wondering if he should redye it, and what colour should he go.

Maybe he’ll put some blue in it. Or purple. Purple suited Eric, maybe it would look good on him.

Though any coloured streak suited Eric.

Maybe he’ll cut the dreads off and see what his natural hair is like if he grows it out.

It wasn’t like the ‘Dolls were gonna continue touring for a while, what with Wednesday’s solo band he’d been working on for a year or so doing stuff and Slipknot going back on tour next month. Maybe a change was in order.

 _Fuck it._ He’ll chop it all off and start again.

Seemed fitting.

“We’re one step closer to going home.” Joey’s voice brought him back to the bus, and the band’s reality of a fragile-ego’d vocalist who’d had a spectacularly shit day yesterday.

“You think he’s feeling better.” This time it wasn’t a question.

Joey hmmd.

Silence penetrated by Ben’s snoring reigned.

“Does that happen a lot? Him getting into a fight? Cuz I’ve only seen it happen once, maybe twice.” He almost hated himself for breaking the silence. _It isn’t like the conversation will lead me down a path I’ll enjoy._

_Why can’t I just let things lie? Why do I have to poke at them so much?_

“Not really. I know it happened quite a lot when he was in FDQ, but when he joined The Rejects he was so much calmer. It happened a bit, I suppose, here and there, but nothing like this.” A pause. “Maybe it was cuz he was new to the band.”

“And he always won.”

“Yep.”

Acey took a sip of his coffee, swilling his mouthful around slowly, fragments of thoughts slowly piecing themselves together.

Before anything really made itself coherent, Joey interrupted his thoughts.

“Where were you? When Eric called? I had also been out, but I was still in the area near the bus. You were quite a way away though, weren’t you?” 

Acey paused, considering what to say. “Yeah. I dunno where I was though. I was just wandering around. Just looking for Wednesday.” He idly traced the pattern on his mug with a calloused finger. At Joey’s silence, like he had a weird sixth sense for unspoken words, he continued, the words seeming half wrenched out of his brain, through his mouth. “I’d been having the vampire spidey-sense for a while, pretty much all morning, and it had been giving me a headache. I just took a few minutes to sit on a bench and ignore the world, and then Edsel just fucking appeared and sat next to me. We chatted about my leaving Dope, airing dirty laundry. Then Racci just came, outta nowhere it seemed, and said he had to go talk to Virus, who I know can be scarily dad-like when he wants to be, so we parted ways pretty quickly. Eric called like five minutes later.” _Fuck it. I should say all of it._ “They know I’m a wolf now.”

He didn’t know how Joey would react, but he was glad the shorter man only hummed and took a slip of his coffee, thinking before he spoke.

Apparently he was the only person in the band who could be trusted to do so. “How did that go?”

If Wednesday had been asking, he would be so fucking sarcastic about it, like he knew it had gone badly and only wanted to hear the confirmation he was right, or if he was feeling especially cruel to rub it in, always fucking crowing at someone else’s misery, but Joey looked like he actually gave a shit, non-existent eyebrows pulled down into a concerned frown that made Acey’s chest hurt.

Acey didn’t know how to feel about that, that he felt like he was in pain from finally receiving a scrap of the reciprocation he so desired, but just not from the person he wanted it from, no matter how selfish that want was. He didn’t know how to feel that he poured so much into his relationship with Wednesday, putting so much effort into something, when he knew Wednesday would never give back, would never care enough to consider doing so, either, but he could unpack that shit when he got home.

At least Eric and Ben and Joey did give back, in their own ways.

Another disturbing thought smacked into him. However shit he’d been feeling in Dope at the end of his time there, however down and unappreciated, he’d never had these sorts of realisations. Even when he’d fallen out with Edsel over the tiniest, pettiest of things, scared he’d be left behind, he’d never thought his friend (and employer, but that’s a different thought he wouldn’t deal with just yet) would just… not care about him.

He blinked. Joey was still waiting for an answer.

“Better than I would have expected. He snapped at me and I snapped back, and he actually listened instead of being dense as all hell. Racci took it pretty well, too. Virus should, when he hears about it, cuz he actually has a brain.” They both snorted at that, Acey looking down into his coffee and chuckling.

Joey slid from his position next to the kettle to lean against him. “How is it we’ve managed to work with the most difficult frontmen we could ever encounter?”

“I’d say Robb Flynn’s pretty difficult, and we’ve never worked with him.” He snorted and sipped coffee again. “Edsel and Corey both have shit they wanna say, messages to put out there, and Wednesday knows what he wants and doesn’t care how he gets it.”

“And we’ve been stuck between them.” Joey clinked mugs with him and downed his coffee.

That was true. They had both been in the same place, trapped between their frontmen, though even though Wednesday had been the one to pen Joey in, Joey had let him.

And now he’d settled everything with Edsel, last time Slipknot played the same festival as Dope, back last summer. It was only Acey who was still stuck, between two men - or three, he supposed, though at least Joey was kinder - he called friends, little more than ammunition between them.

In another life, he mused, he would have broken things off cleanly with Edsel. In another life he wouldn’t have given so much of himself to Wednesday and set himself up to be continuously miserable when Wednesday never gave back.

In another life he would have probably gotten sober sooner and so wouldn’t feel such an all-encompassing need to be the person who helped everyone, and gave and gave and gave until he had nothing left and was disappointed and disillusioned with his current company and ditched them.

Or he’d never have gotten sober, and would probably be tragically dead at twenty six or whatever, pissing his talents away into alcohol and turning into the same sort of person Wednesday was that he hated.

Joey was frowning again, thinking no doubt about their missing and idiotic vocalist again, so Acey downed his coffee, washed his mug, and went to bed, deciding he didn’t have the energy to face anyone today. He could crawl out from his miserable bunk for food and nightfall, but that was it.

It wasn’t, he sulked in his blankets after he changed his clothes for pyjamas, as if anyone would bother to ask after him.

Or yesterday had been too long, and he just wanted a night without dreams of shitty people he wished he’d never met, and people to actually show they appreciated him for once. But moping in self pity was more enjoyable than being reasonable, so he wrapped himself in his blankets and pity and fell asleep again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s emo time. I literally have five uni deadlines in six weeks so idk why I’m doing this instead but I don’t control the creativity gremlin. I might fuck around and have the next three chapters from Edsel’s point of view to spice it up a bit. Shoutout to the absolute rag that is blabbermouth for having interview archives I can stalk-read whilst hungover so everyones feelings are kinda accurate instead of me going off nothing. Kudos and comment to make me die of happiness and resurrect to speedwrite the next chapters :p


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite winning the fight against his greatest rival, Edsel Dope isn't as pleased as he probably should be. In fact, he's completely livid, and when he gets a chance to reflect on his mood, he doesn't enjoy what his brain comes up with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New POV!! Here's yet another angsty, emo, emotionally constipated musician who's being probably overdramatic about shit.  
> Obligatory Tumblr plug of extreme-introvert.

_Run! Run along!_ Edsel glowered at the werewolf’s retreating back, glee and adrenaline making his blood seem to hum and fizz with the ghostly remnants of life, making him feel properly alive for what he thought must be the first time since he’d been turned.

It certainly felt that way.

_Run away! I’ll have time to play another time, I’m sure. I’ve got all the time in the world._

The high of winning a fight was making him almost lightheaded, though it could also have been the blood pumping from his nose that made his head spin. He had won. He had won, and against his fucking rival. The man he hated, perhaps more than-

Don’t go there. _He_ wasn’t worth it. Edsel had vowed to never think of him again, vowed to himself and Acey, and he couldn’t break that promise. Not ever, even if he wasn’t exactly fond of Acey anymore, even if they hadn’t spoken for three years, because what had happened was far more important than their petty feud.

Even if it was all his fault, and guilt had been eating away at him since he first came to that realisation.

No.

He had won. He had fucking won.

He almost couldn’t believe it. It was so close to a full moon, and one of the ‘wolf’s punches had made his head spin like he’d done a few lines after six or seven shots, and he would be sick. It was a near miracle he hadn’t puked yet.

If he hadn’t ducked one of the early punches, the one after the ‘wolf’s strongest hit - no he wasn’t going to give him the courtesy of naming him, even in his thoughts - he figured he would be the one leaving with his dignity in tatters, scratched and bleeding and pissed.

It didn’t matter. He had won. He had won. He had won, and (fuck it, just this once. As a treat.) Wednesday fucking 13 - fucking Wednesday Addams-obssessed dramatic bastard - had lost.

He had won.

It was over.

“Licked him?!” Edsel was brought back to the present with a hefty sigh at the jabber of his undead drummer, walking up the ramp, an arm slung ‘round Virus’s shoulder. “You fucking _licked_ him?! Dude!” Raucous laughter rang out, Racci’s dip-dyed dreads swaying as he cackled at the top of the ramp, bending double out of mirth Edsel couldn’t fathom, before he snapped upright, Virus stepping away from him to avoid being in even the periphery of Edsel’s predictable temper. “YOU LICKED HIM?!” A few screeches later he wheezed his mirth silently, bent over again, clutching his stomach.

Just behind him, Dan stood quietly in bemused patience, fairly new to both vampirism and Racci’s over-the-top energy, quiet and unsure how how to proceed with an irate, pent up vocalist and a manic drummer.

He’d been looking far too pale recently, Edsel frowned. He needed to get some food into him.

They had blood on the bus he could have if he was desperate, and Edsel certainly wasn’t going to parent a man older than him. He’d gone down - not _exactly_ that route, but a similar one - before, and nothing good had come of it.

Virus exuded an air of bored irritation, like he didn’t give two shits about their fight except for how stupid he thought it was, and just wanted to go back to sleep.

Virus was old, though, and tired and grumpy, and thought he was above everything, though not like _him_ , so Edsel didn’t pay his boredom any mind. He’d probably get a lecture later, anyway.

“YOU LICKED HIM!” Racci’s laughter echoed around the parking lot, bouncing off the walls like pennies tossed into a well. It began to give Edsel a headache.

Never mind Dan. Maybe he needed blood, too.

That was what he told himself as he snapped, “Shut up. He knows what it means. And that’s all that matters,” he added, his face pulling into a snarl.

He’d only ever Turned one vampire, and sometimes he regretted it. Racci was like a brother to him, but one brother was quite enough, thank you very much. He didn’t need another.

Though he got on far better with Simon these days.

Well, not _that_ well.

They were on speaking terms, so good enough.

Whatever.

“HA! You licked him!” Racci gave another screech, and Edsel felt his patience slowly slip away.

“If you’re not gonna shut the hell up, I’m gonna go for a walk!”

The words came out a vicious snarl, and he stopped in his tracks and almost apologised.

He had won, and yet he was still angry. Racci didn’t deserve to be the victim of his temper.

Before he could apologise, because he would never apologise, _never_ , never ever, being in the wrong be damned, he stormed past them, down the ramp to the exit, ignoring his drummer’s raucous jabbers that _ooo!_ Someone _needs to get laid!_ He needed food more than anything, and there was bound to be a groupie after a show.

He didn’t know where he was going. Away from Racci’s grating cackling, so nowhere in particular.

He told himself again he was just tired, that he was angry because he hated sleeping, and that it was also hungry, and gave a conspiratorial smile as his stomach rumbled. See! He was just hungry. It was only hanger that was making him act out.

Yet he wasn’t heading back to the bus. He walked and walked, wandering almost aimlessly, the stench of humanity making him feel sick with hunger, but then one smell, painfully familiar and yet different, seemed to slam into his nose, and he saw a man - as painfully familiar as his smell and yet so different - wandering, almost as aimlessly as him, and his hunger vanished from shock. After a minute, the man sat on a bench, seemingly nursing a headache.

He was rubbing his forehead and scowling, at any rate. If that wasn’t classic _I got a headache_ then nothing was.

Edsel should leave the past where it lay. There was little he could do to mend that void, and it was better not to try, to just mourn him from afar.

There was a difference between what he should do and what he was going to do, though. 

He went and sat on the bench.

He arranged his face into a smirk he didn’t feel, trying to ignore the blood he was losing from his nose. “It’s been a while.”

This was the most guilt he’d ever felt over how he’d treated someone, and he’d wanted to wrap the werewolf in a hug and never let go, wanted to find a way to show his regret without saying it, because he was somehow never able to apologise for anything, but his temper had begun to crawl up, and he hadn’t.

There wasn’t any time to feel guilty about it all, though, because the second he had gotten the final shreds of temper under control Racci had appeared from seemingly nowhere, apparently having been looking for him, for once quiet and guilty in a way that turned Edsel’s stomach in multiple ways, and Edsel didn’t do guilt, especially not in front of other people, so he let Racci drag him away from a conversation that would, if allowed to play out in its entirety, would take hours.

Before he could mourn a conversation that didn’t exist (and how the fuck could you mourn something that didn’t exist, there was nothing to miss at all, though maybe that was why it seemed to hurt so bad) he noticed something off about Racci, more so than when he’d turned up to interrupt that urgent conversation.

Racci’s jabbering from earlier had not only lessened. It had completely dissipated.

Whilst he was so rarely silent that silence meant something bad, that either he was in trouble or he was being entirely too perceptive for his own good, Edsel couldn’t help but feel some sick form of relief. If Racci was still chattering away in his usual manic manner Edsel didn’t know if he could stop himself from punching him to shut him up.

God, he was a selfish bastard, wasn't he?

The conversation he’d just had with his former bassist had already told him that, though.

He was selfish and trigger-happy, and it drove away almost every friend he’d ever had. The ones who’d stayed only did so because they didn’t give two shits about his temper, or they were too scared to rile him up or call him out.

_You’re so brash and arrogant because what else could you be? If you take away those things, all you are is tragic; some whitetrash from the gutters of New York who doesn’t have the decency to listen to other people, who puts your pride above anything else, even if you know it’ll hurt you in the long run. You burn more bridges than most people would ever hope to make, and for what?_

_So they don’t leave of their own accord. So you can control how they see you, instead of letting them see how truly pathetic you are._

Clenching his jaw, he reached into his back pocket for a pack and lighter, and lit a cigarette, inhaling and expelling smoke at a rate he only did when angry. 

_You’re brash and arrogant, and you’re a liar. ‘Fraternity lineup’ my ass. You’re not demanding, or difficult to work with, you’re just unbearable._

He blinked, his vision blurring, and decided it was the smoke making his eyes water, running a hand through his dreads to hide his face when Racci turned around to make sure he was following after he sniffed.

When Racci was facing forwards again, Edsel flicked his cigarette lighter idly, watching the flame spring up and gutter out again and again like a dancer.

Unless he was submerged in water, a single touch of the flame could combust him. He’d often wondered what that would be like, in the dead of night, curled up on the sofa, listening to his bandmates snore. What exquisite agony would it offer, how would the flames leave their marks on him, and how much of them would he see before the smoke blinded him and the heat boiled and burnt him to ashes? How long would he feel the pain he deserves?

How long would it take to die?

He didn’t pay attention to a word of Virus’s lecture on the bus, didn’t pay attention to much of anything until they were at the hotel. Even then it seemed almost dreamlike, his body acting on autopilot without his permission, sniping at everyone in some witty snark, bumping shoulders with Racci hard enough to leave a light bruise when he felt he was crawling up his ass, grabbing his luggage for the hotel without realising, checking in and finding his room, standing absently in a band meeting where Virus gave another lecture about something or other whilst he sipped blood from a straw and pretended to pay attention behind sunglasses he didn't need.

Dan, sipping on a waterbottle of blood from his chair by the coffee station, suggested he take a bath, that a bath would do him good after the fight if he wouldn’t let anyone deal with his injuries, light as they were.

Because he’d also tried to disinfect and deal with Edsel’s injuries on the bus, until he’d been swatted aside in a brief moment of clarity, an incoherent snark ripping from Edsel’s mouth at being babied, malicious humour emerging instead of the usual rage.

Why the fuck was he so angry; when he’d won?

This was what he’d wanted. Hed wanted this for four years, and yet he still wasn’t satisfied.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Sat in the warmth of a bath, though he’d never admit he’d taken Dan’s advice, he stretched.

Baths were amazing. They were a wonderful place to relax, even with the overwhelming stench of cheap three-in-one soap, and the steam was always good for any headache he had.

Stretching again, he espied his cigarette lighter, poking out of his jean pocket. He reached for it, momentarily griping over dripped suds on the floor, and flicked it, letting a flame rise again.

It was a flame. Nothing more, nothing less, but it could easily kill him.

It would be a fitting way to go, he thought bitterly. He managed to combust everything ephemeral around him in a fit of fiery rage. It made sense if he died in flames, a testament to who he was, a literal reflection of the metaphor for his temper.

But he was in a bath, every part of him wet. Surely he wouldn’t burn to death like this? Surely he’d only be mildly injured, his skin red, barely bubbled and peeling like he envisioned?

Now wasn’t the time to test that theory.

He let the flame gutter out again and tossed the lighter back to his clothes, still lacking an answer.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this chapter folks, please kudos and/or comment to give me that sweet sweet serotonin rush


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter of setting up the final of my three POVs.  
> Edsel decides to wallow in miserable introspection, despite the fact it won't get him anywhere, and he won't let anyone help. This makes him rather insufferable to be around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ramping up the angst and no I shall not apologise. It's again a whole lot of nothing in terms of plot, but it's important for setting up stuff, and more importantly it's cathartic for me to write. Its also me projecting massively had it happens to be him I'm projecting on to rn sorry not sorry  
> 

Edsel didn’t know what he’d told Virus, he was too drunk to remember what he said even as he said it, let alone days later, but he wasn’t being left alone to the extent to which he’d like to be.

Every time he’d try and mutter about personal space Virus would shift away from him maybe six inches, but never properly away. Even on hotel nights he was never safe. He was always sharing a room, and usually it was with Virus.

Virus cared.

In his own, weird, special way, he cared.

That was nice, if he was the person Edsel wanted care from.

It was too late for that, had been for nearly three years, and it wasn’t like he would ever pay in kind, he reminded himself. It was better this way.

Acey might have accepted his apology, but forgiveness was something else entirely, and Edsel knew, deep down where no one would ever see, he didn’t deserve forgiveness. Not really, not ever. There was a vast difference between acceptance and forgiveness, and he deserved neither. How scared Acey had been of him had proved that.

That had been the start of a fucking wake-up call and a half.

He'd never meant to scare him. He'd never meant _not_ to scare him, either. It had just never been on his mind; he'd never considered that his errant temper and penchant for fisticuffs might scare someone who lacked the supernatural speed and strength to defend themselves.

No wonder he'd chosen to leave.

Virus’s own way of showing care was what he should settle with, if only because he knew that Virus's patience, no-matter it's enormity, had an end.

And yet he couldn’t.

The day ended in another night in which he talked shit he wouldn’t remember, and he made a sad decision, that was self-destructive shit, and he felt cold all over when remembering it.

No one cared about him.

He made his entire career - his living - on the notion no one cared. No one cared, which meant he had to be hard and tough and ready to stand up to the world. That was everything he'd defined himself as, and it couldn't change.

No one cared.

And yet someone pretended they did.

Would he never be free of this shit?

It was his fault for choosing this career path.

What would he be if he never chose this? Some good-for-nothing heroin dealer who couldn’t stop running his mouth to all the wrong people, probably in jail again and getting his sentence constantly extended because he couldn’t resist a good fistfight; of no concern to anyone except the boredom and irritation of whatever board had to deal with him. This was better.

That was all he could tell himself.

The truth was he was probably pissing away his potential; fucking up his relationship with every musician he knew until he would be alone, having to work with anyone but unworkable-with enough that nobody would ever work with him again, not even Virus, and he could barely play bass so going completely solo wouldn't work.

Fuck his relationships with musicians, he’d ruined so many romantic relationships he had lost count, he was only just on civil terms with his brother, and he hadn’t spoken to his parents for nearly a decade.

God, he was a piece of work wasn’t he? Doomed for obscurity due to his dumb behaviour, yet he was barely able to stop his own descent. Watching everything he'd ever wanted fade away due to his own shitty personality, with no way to stop it, every attempt at doing so only precipitating it more.

Racci saw the truth of that, and was trying to steer him away, trying to draw him out of that loop.

Poor, naive, sex-oriented Racci: horny and sniping and chatty, following what people said and that still wasn’t enough because he couldn’t shut the fuck up and had to voice his own opinions.

Though that was Edsel’s fault for being so fucking controlling.

There was nothing he could do right now but try to sleep, and hope that he could be a better person tomorrow.

Oh, how he dreaded sleep.

It had to happen at some point though, even vampires need their rest, so he should just put up with it.

Bouncing around on stage, aside from his fight with that werewolf, was the most alive he’d felt in a long, long time. It took a couple days to realise; but after Virus - that caring bastard - had force-fed him half a litre of blood, whilst rambling all the right soothing words at such a pace Edsel wondered if he’d memorised them instead of meant them, he’d felt normal again.

If not quite as angry at Acey as he probably should be. 

Or what he thought he should be, because he knew that there was nothing to forgive, just his own ego to soothe.

Seeing him again had changed everything, and he hated change anyway.

Whatever.

After the show Virus was giving him concerned looks again, but by the time Edsel noticed he was too high to really give a shit, only feel vague irritation. He was high, and had been having fun - why couldn’t Virus piss off?

When Racci started up with the same pitying looks Edsel decided he’d had enough. He set about fixing up another line of coke, and it disappeared up his nose.

Like magic! Ha.

Two more and he knocked back the rest of Virus’s whiskey, giving him as much of a spiteful grin as he could muster as he stole it, even though the room was spinning like hell. Regretting it as he did it, he did the same to Racci, who's eyebrows raised towards his hairline in a manner that indicated he was both impressed and not. Edsel knocked back Dan's whiskey too, to complete his asshattery, knowing he'd regret that most of all.

Oh well. He’d known deep down this night would end with him in a puddle of blood and vomit.

Predictably, (or maybe only for him because he was used to this lifestyle) that was how it ended.

Oh well. At least he hadn’t puked on the groupie. The fact that that had been a possibility made his face burn as much as a vampire’s could, but he hadn’t, and no one knew it had been a possibility.

For a second he felt a spark of mischievous joy, grinning to himself from his bed-nest of blankets on the sofa the next night. It felt like a little secret, not speaking of things that weren’t anyone’s concern since they hadn’t occurred. It was like the opposite of mourning what never was.

Another little secret was how much he enjoyed keeping these things to himself.

Then the weight of all those little secrets came crashing down upon him. Him nearly puking on people. Him getting pissed at others for caring (especially when they weren't the person he wanted the care from). his ensuing pseudo bullying to try to push away those he didn't want close to him. the fact he was too scared of how low he saw himself to want his friends to be close in case they ran away. the fact that so many had. His anxiety meds that had never really worked (and so maybe Virus was right when he said that he only saw himself as shitty when he wasn't really), his adhd diagnosis (that medication was hidden in an empty pill bottle and nobody seemed to notice he took it like clockwork). How he truly felt about the notion that nobody cared about him even though he made sure they didn't want to care. How much he despised himself for sleeping with groupies when he couldn’t remember their names, how much he despised himself for sleeping with groupies when he had a girlfriend waiting for him back in Chicago - sweet darling Claire who he could tell would be sick of him within a month of his return and he’d be alone again. How much he’d truly hated his original bassist, for reason not just selfless. How much his original bassist scared him into near-daily nightmares about _that night_ that made him revile sleep.

How much he’d already forgiven his ex guitarist for something that didn’t exist to be forgiven.

How he’d come so close to ending it all when he’d been a penniless kid in a shitty suburb of New York with no present and no future and no use to his poor mother, how he’d come even closer before he’d started drowning his sorrows in drugs and booze, and how he was right back there again, albeit as a selfish thirty year old vampire with success under his belt and people he knew cared about him.

How he felt like he was being chipped away at every time someone left him, and how each time he felt there was no more to be chopped off he’d be proven wrong, how there was some mild resentment somewhere, deep down where he could ignore it and never mention it, for Preston and Sloane and Simon, how there would be some for Racci and Dan when they left him, and even more for whoever came next. How scared he felt every time someone left, like it wasn’t him they were chipping but whatever metaphorical armour he wore to pretend he didn’t feel fear. How much he was scared the persona he'd created for himself to protect him had not just failed, but had dug him into a hole he could never climb from.

How scared he’d truly been in that fucking fight.

Oh god.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. He curled up in a ball and swallowed something hysterical. The voice of logic was so distant it was but a whisper.

Oh god.

God.

Religion had never been something he’d cared much for, but after he’d Turned he’d tried to back-pedal, remember all the Catholic liturgies drilled into him as a kid.

The words of god had made his throat burn and bleed, but somehow saying his name didn’t. Thinking it - another little fucking secret he wouldn’t share with anyone - running it through his mind as he fought on damn near autopilot and vampire speed, had helped him somewhat.

Lot and his wife had burnt for hubris.

Or whatever. He couldn’t remember anymore.

It could have been Prometheus, but his Greek mythology was even worse than his Christian mythology, and he didn't give a shit anyway, so he tossed the notion to the wind. The Catholic line of thought fit him better, anyway.

Though what sort of fucking name was 'Lot'?

Those two had burnt for their divine crimes (or not but who gives a shit) and he probably would too.

Scratch that probably.

He _would_ burn, if not physically despite his obsession with his cigarette lighter, there was no probably about it, but he would drag down that mangy fucking werewolf if it killed him. He wasn't going to face the flames alone, and if he had to choose anyone, he would choose his rival. There would be nothing sweeter than watching his own fate happen to the man he hated most, no victory more cathartic.

_Or You're just really depressed and your anxiety is running high, and you'd rather let someone you hate live rent-free in your head so you can neglect what yo0u need to address._

He didn't need some fucking voice of reason in the back of his mind to tell him his focus on hatred would be seen as petty bullshit by anyone else, though, so it was yet another secret, and it fell like another brick on his briefly smug joy. He rolled around in his blanket nest to face the wall, misery back and worse.

If Virus was here, because Virus always appeared to be the voice of sense - the voice of reason in Edsel's head was Virus because that man always seemed so fucking wise, and he didn't necessarily hate it, but he hated how dependent on him he was - he would tell Edsel that if he wasn't going to talk it out; talk to him or the therapist he so clearly needed, he could just cry about it.

 _Shit's good for you._ It would be said, if Virus was with him right now, with a drag on a cigarette or a sip of coffee.

Scratch that. It was like one am. Virus would be on wine by now.

Fuck it. Virus was such a know-all he'd know if crying about shit was a good idea, and it was so late at night he might as well if he didn't want to be even crankier than usual.

As long as Virus didn't try to give him a makeshift therapy session tomorrow.

_I'll have a nice little cry and then fall asleep._

_Maybe that fucking dream won't come back._

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter should be peak angst for Edsel's chapters, so prepare tissues or whatever.  
> Kudos and/or comment to make me swoon and smile that people like this, and have a good one lol


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culmination of angst and a very much needed conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited because I hate how miserable and probably ooc it was. I took most of the dream out, but the details will probably either make a separate chapter on their own or be dropped later on.  
> Tumblr: extreme-introvert

In his dreams, he was always too late.

Sometimes the only way to save Acey was to Turn him, and sometimes he was already beyond even that, and that fucking bastard who still seemed to live rent free in his mind, even whilst in prison where he could never get at them again, was standing smugly, and all Edsel could do was stare with no comprehension, _because_ _there was too much blood, and it was too dark, and he just couldn’t understand._ Those versions had Edsel flying from his blanket nest to the toilet to vomit up his dinner, painting the toilet bowl red.

Worse were the ones where he had to Turn him, creating only a pallid vampire who longed for the sun, sat on the edge of shadows to creep a finger across to the light, only for his eyes to become glassy and swimmy when nothing changed, his finger smoking and reddening. There was nothing but sadness in both their hearts then, because they both knew that one day Acey would walk into the sunlight just to feel it again, and they would never see each other again, and he knew he’d never get over the guilt, constantly asking himself _what the fuck have I done_ , even time Acey came into view.

But worst of all were the ones where cold, pallid, near clammy hands would shake him, and he’d ‘awaken’ to his guitarist’s decaying face, jelly eyes accusing, blue lips spewing hatred and betrayal. There he couldn’t move, couldn't think, could feel nothing but horror and revulsion because this rotten corpse was not his guitarist, because those words could never come from Acey’s mouth, surely they couldn’t, surely this was some horrible joke, some vile prank Sloane or Preston thought funny, because he didn’t know how to deal with that particular brand of guilt any more than having to Turn Acey without permission filled him with guilt.

Those dreams would leave him wide awake and shaking, and freezing, like Acey’s dead hands were still on him, reaching through him, sending ice through his bones.

Tonight, Acey was a vampire, and apart from being more compassionate - how compassionate he wished he'd been in retrospect, especially now.

In the way of dreams, it was suddenly a couple years ahead, and Acey had left him, just like he had in real life. Edsel was angry and sad, mournful and bitter, and a whole myriad of other emotions he didn’t see any damn point in untangling, because even in his dreams he was an ass, and Racci was chatting away and actually saying something sensible, but he still didn’t want to hear it.

Then he was reunited with Acey, and it was more bitter than sweet, because Acey was forever grateful for saving him _that_ _night_ , but it still wasn’t enough, because he still wanted to feel the sun again.

They talked it all out like they'd never had the chance to, and they parted ways until he followed him.

Waking up didn’t seem to diminish the horrors of his sleeping mind, and yet again he wanted to have a good cry, even though last night's had seemed to punish him more than anything else.

He was in the middle of doing so, sniffling into his blankets, one over his head, when Virus awoke. Edsel could heat him piss and then potter about the kitchen, fixing up coffee, because that seemed to wake him up more than blood.

Then silence.

He sniffled when he thought it was safe to do so, because he need to cry, dammit, but didn't think he could face anyone, but then he heard a cup being set down.

 _Oh shit_ , was all he had the time to think before he was actually _picked up_ , and he was _actually_ going to murder Virus for this, and carried to another perch. A curtain drew, implying this was going to be Private Conversation and General Enquiries into the Mind and Overall Well-Being of One Edsel Dope Time, held in its usual spot of tour manager office-booth space.

Crap.

Yeah. His cry last night truly _had_ punished him.

He’d thought Virus had stopped with this shit ages ago, after Edsel had told him to go fuck himself with the most amount of rage he could ever really remember mustering for his closest friend.

He'd felt shitty for it afterwards, and then told himself feeling shitty over it made him a good person and went back to sex and booze and drugs like normal.

Clearly Virus had forgotten last time, and would probably need a reminder. Edsel, turning from misery to rage like always, was only too glad to give him one, even though he was probably treading on the thin ice of Virus's patience.

Then he was startled by the realisation that whenever he thought of people abandoning him, thought of how he’d hold some kind of hate for them, Virus was never on that list.

He was also startled by the realisation that no, he didn’t hate him for it.

He sighed, deciding to hold his tongue, and pulled the blanket off his head.

Better get this over and done with, if he wasn't going to walk away or snap.

Seeing that he hadn’t had his head bitten off yet, although Edsel knew he was probably visibly pissed, though probably oh-so childishly in Virus's eyes, Virus opened up the conversation.

“I know you don’t like me doing this, but you fought Wednesday and saw Acey, and you haven’t been the same since.” Icy, childish silence met his words. “You were almost this angry after you fought Wednesday - hell, just _before_ you fought him - and you were still this angry after you saw Acey, and I think that means it wasn’t about you and Wednesday at all.”

“And you think cuz I saw Acey I’m still attached to him?”

For how much he was mocking him, Edsel knew Virus had most of it sussed out already. He was good at doing that, and Edsel was always torn between impressed and angry.

Currently he was kind of grateful that he didn't have to say _everything_ out loud. He might have shit to work through, but saying it out loud was embarrassing.

“And he’s now a werewolf.”

Correct as always.

“I was going to Turn him! If he’d asked me to, after-” he broke off, refusing to say the name. “After _that_ _night_.”

He knew that Preston had told Virus what had happened, and he also knew that Preston had always been hoping against hope that the vampire who’d never be named wasn’t the monster he appeared at the time.

Seven weeks ago - after he’d been publicly proved wrong - he’d called Edsel up, full of snotty, tearful apologies, and Edsel had heard a small child in the background, and then remembered that Preston had a daughter.

Not just a daughter. He had a whole family, and a career in both bands and teaching. Not the stardom he’d hoped for nearly a decade ago, but the life he’d settled with and then decided he wanted.

Whatever. They’d both chosen their paths.

So had Acey, but there would always be one thing niggling at him.

“And he chose to be Turned by someone else.”

“By a werewolf.” There was no fierceness to his voice.

There didn’t need to be.

“That doesn’t mean he’s chosen Wednesday.”

“Oh yeah?” Edsel didn’t bother to keep the bitter tone out of his voice, just angrily swiped at his eyes and pretended he couldn’t feel Virus pity him.

Every one of Virus's looks was something Edsel always thought he could feel, like the simple placement of his eyes on him had some sort of physical weight. It was the only thing he'd ever really disliked Virus for.

“He knows Wednesday. He knows how many bandmates he’s gone through. I know Acey, and you do too. Why would he choose someone that fickle over you?”

“Because whatever he is, I’m worse.” Usually that was his pride point, that he was bigger and badder than Wednesday 13, but now it seemed nothing to brag about, more the opposite.

“You’re far more loyal.”

He snorted. Bullshit. Look at his track record with keeping band members. “Oh yeah?”

“Wednesday isn’t on speaking terms with his ex-bandmates. You are. How’s Preston, by the way?”

“He’s good. His daughter’s being a handful, apparently, but I think kids her age are. He prefers teaching drums to playing them now. Says it’s cuz he’s getting old.” He paused, and scowled, his stomach flipping with a new thought. “You’re right.”

“You knew I was anyway.” 

Edsel wrinkled his nose, and felt better at the movement. “What’s the point of these conversations, if you’re only telling me shit I already know?”

“To help you. Both in figuring it out and in telling you what you need to hear. You worry too much, and it doesn't seem to do shit.”

"No I don't. I worry enough. Acey joined Wednesday," oh how he loathed to speak his name, "because I let him down when he probably needed me most. He left because Wednesday offered him what I couldn't."

"And you feel perpetual guilt for it because you think it makes you compare yourself to Wednesday 13, and you find yourself wanting and assume everyone feels the same." After a pause, Virus said, “and your meds don’t seem to be doing much.”

Edsel flinched so hard he nearly fell off his perch. “How do you know about that,” he demanded, rage beginning to coil within him again.

“You take the same shit on the dot every day. It doesn’t matter how much Xanax or Vicodin, or whatever it is today you pretend it is, I know you. Maybe not as well as I should, but enough.” 

“You don't know it's working or not. I've been taking it longer than I've known you.”

Virus huffed, and changed the subject to what he probably had been wanting to know since he'd carried - fucking _carried_ \- Edsel over here. “You were crying this morning.”

“Are you gonna be all psychic,” Edsel wiggled his fingers and widened his eyes in a mockery of a cartoonish wizard, “and tell me you think I had a bad dream or what?” Deep down he was panicking, because telling other people how he was sucked, but there was no escape, and he knew he’d have to say something, and acting like an ass was something he did on autopilot anyway, whilst he thought up something useful to the situation, or a way out.

There wasn't a fucking way out of this conversation, though. The only way was through it.

“You cried last night, too. You’re not as good at hiding that shit as you think, and you don’t need to hide it as much as you think, either. But yeah. Something’s eating at you, has been for weeks, and just fucking spit it out. Get it off your chest.”

“Why do you care?” The words were an acid spit, though not as acidic as he wished. Truth be told they were nothing but another delay tactic. “I’m not exactly an angel, and there’s nothing in it for you to care.”

“You’re certainly not a fucking angel.” Virus snorted. “You’re a bad tempered, rude, and quite frankly annoying ex-criminal with an ego the size of Jupiter to hide everything about yourself you hate. But have you ever considered that you’re not a bad person? You’re not the nicest, but you’re not a liar, except when it comes to admitting shit about yourself, and, well, you wouldn’t have written half the songs you have done for our album if you were bad, or apathetic. Have you ever considered that I like you, as a person? You’re compassionate despite your best attempts, you’re mostly nice, even if not recently, and you’re not the asshole you seem hellbent on making everyone think you are. Besides, if you won’t get a fucking therapist - which you refuse to do - this is the next best option.”

But even Virus had his limits to how much he could deal with, especially before he’d finished his coffee.

Though no one loved coffee like Acey did.

It always came back to Acey. It was like he was obsessed, but he knew he was just fixating on him because the cracks between them were the biggest symbol of how fucked up he was.

Even if those cracks had shrunk from what felt like a void, and speaking with him had aired enough shit he'd hoped he could start to heal.

Edsel shrunk down into himself, closed his eyes and took a breath, and admitted Virus was right.

“Preston told you about That Night.” Inwardly he flinched, and tried not to sigh at himself. Would everything start there?

Probably. It was where things had begun to fall apart between him and what felt like everyone.

Virus nodded solemnly, eyes bright and attentive.

Most of his emotion was in his eyes. Virus never had been one for big displays of emotion, but maybe that was why Edsel though his gaze held weight. Heavy in the space of nothing.

“I was the one who woke up and stopped him. But I have dreams where that doesn’t happen, I’m too late. Sometimes I get shaken ‘awake’ by Acey, already dead and rotting, and he's betrayed and angry, and it's his voice and his body and nothing like him. Sometimes I’m there in time to watch him die.”

“And other times you have to Turn him.” Virus laid a hand on his arm, before throwing caution to the wind to wrap his cranky, miserable vocalist in a hug.

The tears came back, and suddenly Edsel pictured himself flinging himself into Virus's embrace, sobbing into Virus’s T-shirt.

He didn't do that, just turned his head to stare out of the window to steel himself for telling him everything.

After that the words didn’t stop coming, and everything was in the air, and his chest felt so light for the first time in three weeks - for the first time since That Night (and maybe that was why thing had begun to fall apart) - it hurt.

It was the best pain he'd ever felt.

Later on he was back to his usual cocky self, bragging about how much coke he could do and booze he could handle and girls he could fuck in one night, pretending nothing had happened, though Racci still crept into his hotel room after all the groupies had gone, seeing somehow Edsel’s apprehension at sleeping earlier, the concept of sleeping alone even more daunting than usual.

Then Racci admitted Virus had confided in him.

Once, Edsel would have been pissed that Virus told his secrets, especially because he’d never done it before, and hadn’t even asked, but he owed it to Racci to let him know what the fuck was wrong with him, and Racci wasn’t a bad guy, just dumb and chatty and jittery, and in all likeliness he had the same adhd Edsel did, so he let it go, and let Racci braid and unbraid his dreads until he fell asleep from having his hair messed with - and never mind kindred spirits, if Racci told anyone that he certainly fucking would kill him, having Turned him or not.

When the horrible dream began - this one the one where Acey was dead and rotting but betrayed and angry, though after last night it didn’t seem to be the worst anymore, he was shaken awake by Racci. His groggy anger bled out in seconds, because he had been woken just before the worst part, and he must have been thrashing something awful, and now it wasn’t about just him anymore.

That would probably turn out to be a double edged sword that would hang over him later, but that couldn’t be helped. Not now, and probably not ever.

At least it was something to keep in mind so he could at least try to curb his selfishness.

Beneath him, Racci’s legs shifted, and he realised his head was in Racci’s lap, and Racci had probably been sleeping sitting up, judging by how tired he looked. Edsel mumbled a thanks to him.

Eventually they lay next to each other, heads pressed against one another, dreads pressing into skulls, but his sleep was peaceful after that.

Every night for the rest of the tour someone would crawl to his blanket nest, or drag him to their bunk, and he wouldn’t have to sleep alone anymore.

The nightmare didn’t appear in any incarnation for the rest of the tour.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He gets the dreams because whilst Acey gets them for nearly being killed twice and he has his won issues from it, Edsel's are out of guilt - he thinks it should never have happened at all, and that he had the power to, so its more spiralling anxiety. he's got a lot to learn and work through (they all have tbh) and once he does he'll be less emo (hopefully next of his pov chapters) So much Blabbermouth got trawled for these last three chapters for nothing more than throwaway sentences and also the current (July 2020) dope drama is, fuckin something. Comments and kudos much appreciated if left, peace out and have a good one, I'll see you again in 2006, which will be probably in like October, and hope it's not as miserable.

**Author's Note:**

> There might be more at some point idk. Also I haven’t watched enough murderdolls interviews and I think it shows.


End file.
